


Almost Pure

by FelicisQuill2



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, Jealous Bellamy, Jealous Clarke, Sexual Tension, Smut, Teacher Bellamy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-16
Updated: 2019-04-24
Packaged: 2019-09-20 00:25:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 29,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17012007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FelicisQuill2/pseuds/FelicisQuill2
Summary: Finn's perfect for Clarke. He's sweet, good-looking, funny and just got accepted into the Ivy League. The surprise party she and Octavia threw together last-minute to celebrate him is going smoothly enough ... until Raven shows up. That's when Bellamy's behavior takes a turn.~~***~~Bellamy tickles her sides so abruptly she doesn't see it coming, can only yelp in protesting laughter in response. Bellamy takes the opportunity to whirl her around until she ends up breathless, head against his chest, back flush with his front.Blow a kiss, fire a gunAll we need is someone to lean on."Ok with this?" he asks.She's keenly aware of his thumb brushing over a small patch of her forearm. It's raising goosebumps to the surface of her skin. She wonders if Bellamy even notices."Yeah."





	1. Chapter 1

_"I met you late night, at a party_

_Some trust fund baby's Brooklyn loft._

_By the bathroom, you said 'let's talk,'_

_But my confidence is wearing off._

_These aren't my people_

_These aren't my friends_

_She grabbed my face, and that's when she said:_

_'I like that you're broken,_

_Broken like me._

_Maybe that makes me a fool._

_I like that you're lonely,_

_Lonely like me._

_I could be lonely with you.'"_

_~"Broken," lovelytheband_

"You ready to work a pole after this, Princess?" Bellamy throws Clarke a sidelong glance before opening the refrigerator door and rummaging around for a beer. Her dress is covered in ruby red sequins and hits her mid-thigh. It hugs every inch of her curves with a sharp V in front to show off her cleavege, leaving little to the imagination. 

She closes her eyes and huffs out a low growl of frustration. Of course he would be here to ruin her perfect night with Finn. She and Octavia put so much effort into the decorations and food, spending hours rummaging through the aisles at Party City for the best balloons and confetti poppers and picking out a special dish to represent every country that was part of the G8. It wasn't everyday your friend got accepted early decision into Harvard University to study International Relations. 

She got really lucky the day Octavia was hired at Luna's Coffee Shop last summer. Besides all the free iced caramel lattes she wanted, she also got to flirt with her best friend's very attractive coworker, Finn Collins, who was new to Arkadia, in her year, and an expert at adding creamer-based animals to the tops of her drinks. She's known him for a little over two months now, and things are going great. They have one class together - calculus - which is not her favorite, but Finn's helped her study for the last two tests in the library after school. His deep, soulful eyes kept distracting her when the random math symbols on the creamy paper in front of them got too boring. It wasn't her fault he was gorgeous. Finn made little jokes to make her feel better when she got an answer wrong and encouraged her until she started being able to solve the problems on her own. He told her amazing stories about floating around in a Zero-G environment over the summer at a NASA space camp and about the intense Chinese New Year celebrations where dragons danced up the hilly streets he was from in San Francisco. 

It's really Wells she should be most grateful to. Using his outgoing personality that landed him the gig of student body president for their senior class, he invited Finn to hang out with their group when they went to see Halloween. Since that night when Finn sat next to her and offered her his popcorn, they've been texting a lot more. He started eating with her friends during lunch in Arkadia High's garden courtyard. Two weeks ago they went bowling and played arcade games with Octavia, Jasper and Monty. The moment he came up behind her to show her how to aim to score the highest points on the SkeeBall machine still makes her shiver at the memory. Last week he invited her to Mecha Park to walk his dog down by the river. She can't be sure, but there was one moment when she was saying goodbye where his hand moved toward her waist and she thought he might kiss her. But then he let it fall and grinned at her, running his hand through his sleek brown hair instead and saying he'd see her in school tomorrow. She likes that he's taking things slow. But, hey, tonight the dress can't hurt. 

"Fuck you, Bellamy. It's a  _party;_ we're not at church. I'm allowed to wear whatever dress I want." She tugs the front of it up discreetly and continues mixing grenadine into her vodka and club soda.

"That's not a dress," Bellamy closes the door and leans against it to crack open his can of Coors Light. His gaze sweeps up and down her body in a way that leaves a trail of heat behind as he goes. "It's an invitation to wind up on the 11 o'clock news." 

Clarke wrinkles her nose in disgust. "Who even invited you? You're weren't friends with Finn last time I checked. It's kind of pathetic to be crashing high school parties at your age, don't you think?"  

Bellamy smiles coldly, running a hand through his shaggy, dark hair. She opted for simple tan flats tonight, figuring the combination of alcohol, rowdy teenagers and teetering high heels could be a lethal one. Finn's family's condo was on the third floor, after all. She instantly regrets the fashion choice when Bellamy begins drawing nearer, knowing he'll use his height and broad chest to his advantage. 

"Who do you think is providing your alcohol for this magical experience?" his eyes track over her face as if looking for a sign of weakness. "Or driving your drunk ass home later?"

"I can just take an Uber. It's no big deal," Clarke scoffs, though she feels the pink blotches slipping up her neck all the same. 

"And explain to Mommy why her pre-med student is trashed? I doubt it," Bellamy's stare is a little unnerving when coupled with the low, melodic pitch to his voice. "You told her you were crashing at our place, didn't you?" Clarke jerks her chin away from him almost the second his thumb and forefinger catch the underside of her soft skin. 

"You're just here to cockblock Octavia," Clarke says angrily, taking a step back. "There's nothing wrong with Atom! He's a  _nice_  guy! Something you obviously know nothing about." 

The anger bubbling up in her stomach is probably a little irrational. But she can't help it; it's just what Bellamy brings out of her. He's known her since she was making finger paintings in elementary school, so his insights about her frequently hit too close to home. It's true that after her father died of pancreatic cancer two years ago, Abby's thrown herself even more heavily into her research work at the hospital and frequently reminded Clarke how important her future career in medicine will be to help others heal. Abby vacillates between showering Clarke with intense attention - checking over her homework, taking them out for mani-pedis and insisting on expensive treks through Nordstrom's - or getting wrapped up in a work project and leaving money on the counter of their vast and empty kitchen so Clarke can order takeout. She does, in fact, think Clarke will be staying at Octavia's tonight. 

"You don't know everything about him. And that doesn't answer my question about where you're sleeping," Bellamy leans one hand on the counter next to her waist, blocking her exit. It's possible the alcohol is making his freckles wiggle slightly. His pupils are wide and black. 

Clarke opens her mouth to answer but nothing comes out except a strange, garbled noise. 

"Clarke!" Jasper bursts excitedly through the kitchen door, pushing up the goggles on top of his head. "Finn just pulled into the parking lot! He's coming up. We have to get into position!" 

Bellamy draws back from her immediately, and a rush of warmth goes with him. 

"Yes! Sounds great!" Clarke smoothes her hair over her shoulder and grabbing her drink, scurries around Bellamy and back toward the living room. 

+

"SURPRISE!" Everyone screams when Finn walks through the door of his home, staring around in shock. 

"What? What's all this for? It's not my birthday!" he yells out as people start crowding around to pat him on the back and pull him into the party. Then his eyes land on the sparkling banner Octavia hung up on the dining room wall that says  **Harvard or Bust!** and understanding infuses his face. 

"You really shouldn't have," he's still protesting by the time he reaches Clarke, Octavia and Wells. 

"We couldn't miss out on celebrating you making it into the Ivies!" Octavia smiles. 

"Yeah... us mere mortals could never dream of making our parents that proud!" Wells punches Finn on the shoulder. 

"Well, it's really great. Who thought it up?" 

"Clarke!" Octavia says instantly, not missing a beat.  

Clarke blinks rapidly and looks down at the ground to hide her blush. 

"It was more of a group effort," she mumbles. 

Finn pulls her into a one-armed hug at the waist and presses a quick kiss to the top of her head that sends electricity running through her frame. "Thanks. It's perfect," he whispers into her ear before Monty calls him away to a game of beer pong. 

She feels a set of eyes on her, but it takes a few seconds to figure out it's Bellamy from a corner of the low-lit room, chatting with Miller. Clarke doesn't know Miller well, just that he's a few years older than her and splits his time between shifts at Luna's during the day and Phoenix, a club downtown where Bellamy sometimes bar tends when he’s not working as a security guard. She can't read the expression on Bellamy's face so quickly turns her back on him instead and takes Harper's outstretched hand as someone turns up the music, letting the beat wash over her and carry her toward the makeshift dance floor.   

+

Clarke's not much of a drinker, but her nerves about tonight have her sipping her third vodka. The alcohol feels heavy and calming in her veins, turning her limbs lighter and helping her dance. She grins when she sees Octavia chatting with Atom, who's looking at her like she fell from the stars. She lets Harper twirl her around twice but when she finds Octavia again in the crowd, Bellamy is standing between her and her crush, face dark and a few inches from Atom's. Half-expecting Bellamy to hit him, she tries to make her way past the front door to help diffuse the situation when it opens unexpectedly, letting in a blast of icy air. 

"Finn!" a pretty, thin girl sporting a red bomber jacket and a long, chestnut ponytail cries out, dropping a large suitcase on the floor. "Do I have the right place?" she turns to Clarke, who just stares for a moment before regaining her senses. 

"Ummm, yeah. This is his condo. We're his friends from school. Who are you?" 

"Raven Reyes," she sticks out her hand for Clarke to shake. "I'm Finn's girlfriend from San Francisco." 

Several small bombs go off in Clarke's brain. She must look like a moron, standing there with her mouth open. But it can't be for long because within seconds, Finn is pushing his way through the crowd to see who was at the door, and Raven is leaping into his surprised arms before crushing her lips to his. 

Finn's body goes tense, but he kisses her back. He kisses her back, and Clarke watches it. Watches him pull away first and look at her over Raven's shoulder with a guilty, apologetic expression. It takes Raven a minute to realize she doesn't have her boyfriend's full attention. But when she does, she turns around. 

"I-I've got to go. Not feeling very well," Clarke murmurs, already dreading asking Bellamy for a ride when she doesn't know if he's off somewhere scaring the shit out of Atom right now. The tears are building hot and thick behind her eyelids. She should probably find Octavia and see if her friend needs anything, but she knows she won't be much help at the moment. Her steps are shaky. She heads in the direction of the hall closet where she stored her jacket and purse. Her hand is almost on the bronze knob when a larger, tan one wraps around her wrist. 

"Leaving so soon, Princess?" Bellamy's a wall of warmth right at her side. 

"I'm calling an Uber. Let me go," she tries to shake her hand free of him. 

"The hell you are," he growls. "I already told that prick trying to hit on my sister to get lost. If you think I'm letting you get into some stranger's car and get raped dressed like that, you can think again!" 

"There's  _nothing_  wrong with Atom!" Clarke snarls suddenly, wrenching her hand free and pushing Bellamy away from her by the chest. "The only prick here is you."  _And Finn_ a small voice in her head adds quietly. "I'm not going anywhere with you." 

"Yes you are," Bellamy insists. "It's late, and you've been drinking, and there's only so long that I can trust Jasper and Monty won't blow this place up with one of their asinine experiments." 

"What about you?" Clarke spits back. "I'm supposed to get into a car with someone who's been drinking beer?" 

Bellamy rolls his eyes.

"I had one beer over three hours, Princess. I'm fine." 

"Well I don't think it's worth the risk," she says hotly, stepping forward under the golden glow of an overhead light. 

"Clarke," Bellamy narrows his eyes, "Why are you crying?" 

Suddenly she feels the few, stray tears leaking down her cheeks and swats them away. 

"I'm not," she argues. 

"You  _are,"_ he scrutinizes her under the light carefully like he's the owner of an antique shop surveying a stamp collection. Her mascara is probably running a little by now, but she hopes her nose isn't red. Bellamy reaches into the inner pocket of his leather jacket, and for a confused moment, she thinks he might whip out his phone and take a blackmail picture of her or something. It's a fluffy white tissue that emerges instead, which he hands to her. 

"Thanks," she says warily. 

Bellamy brushes her off with a wave of his hand. 

"Did anybody hurt you, Clarke? Did someone touch-"

"God! No!" Clarke practically yells at him. "I can see why Octavia thinks you're batshit." 

Bellamy purses his lips but doesn't say anything, just crosses his arms over his chest. 

"Fine, if this is some more petty, high school drama, I'm out." 

Clarke doesn't respond. She starts chewing her lip and staring off to the left where Raven is glowing happily, wrists around Finn's neck and fingers playing with his hair as they dance. Bellamy follows her gaze, and when his dark eyes seek out her blue ones again, she's surprised to see a knowing smirk there. 

"Who's Red?" 

She blames the vodka for making her loose-lipped. 

"Raven. His girlfriend. From San Francisco."  

Bellamy lets out a low whistle. 

"Fucking waste of money on him for all this," he gestures around at the party. "There are always a few frogs in the kingdom, Princess. Now let's go find Octavia, and I'll take you both home." 

He reaches for her arm, but she steps backward. 

"No!" 

Dread coats her stomach like sloshing milk when she realizes the meaning behind his words. Of course Octavia probably told him about her crush on Finn - the two have always been close. But something about Bellamy  _knowing_  how stupid she was to plan this whole event for a guy who was leading her on is making her want to gag. 

"Clarke, if you're looking for someone to talk you down, tell you that you're just upset and not thinking straight, I'm not that guy." 

"I know you're not," she says acidly. "You never have been."

His eyes flit between the Raven dropping kisses to Finn's jaw and cheek and back to Clarke's stony expression, and she hears him sigh. He holds out an upturned palm to her instead. 

"Dance with me," he says it more like a command and less like a question. 

Clarke's eyebrows shoot up, sure she misheard him. 

" _What_?"  

"Dance with me," he repeats. "You put all the effort into making this a nice night, so don't show him he ruined it for you. One dance with me, you pretend to look happy, then we find Octavia and get the hell out of here." 

This close, Clarke can smell the pine, woodsmoke cologne scent Bellamy likes. Her inebriated nose kind of likes it, but she squashes the thought. 

"You think it'll make him jealous or something? Because that's crazy - he knows I've known you my whole life." 

Bellamy tilts his head to the side and bites his tongue between his teeth. 

"It's only crazy if you look at it that way." 

"Why are you doing this?" 

He lets his hand drop, exasperated. "Forget it, Clarke. Let's find O and go." 

A sour swoop in her stomach she can't explain flares up when he starts to turn away. 

"No, wait!" Her hand lands on his forearm, and he tenses briefly before relaxing. "I could do ... one dance." 


	2. Chapter 2

Bellamy narrows his eyes, assessing her. He seems about to say something, but then the moment passes, and he smirks again. "Come on then," he shoulders off his jacket and hangs it up next to hers in the closet before gesturing  back toward the dancing crowd.

Clarke suddenly feels hyper aware of her body despite the alcohol. The sensation is only intensified when Bellamy's large, warm palm lands on the small of her back to guide her through the maze of swaying limbs. She catches Finn craning his neck trying to mouth something to her over Raven's glossy head. But she can't bear to focus on his face for more than a second. 

Bellamy leads them to a slightly open space big enough for them both beside a white leather couch. Her hands hang limply at her sides, tingling and unsure. What is she supposed to do with them? Put them around his neck? On his shoulders? Turn around and let him wrap his arms around her waist? She finds herself focusing on the tan skin of his bicep stretched shiny and smooth underneath his dark blue T-shirt. There's the edge of a tattoo peeking out from under the cloth. A small bird flying upward toward the sun that he got after his mother Aurora was killed by a drunk driver. She's seen it a thousand times, but suddenly her fingertips are tracing very hesitantly up his arm, and she sweeps the underside of the wing with her thumb before letting it rest on his bicep and daring to glance back up into his heavily lashed eyes. 

_Do you recall, not long ago_

_We would walk on the sidewalk_

_Innocent, remember?_

For a bizarre moment, all she wants to do is bury her head into the side of his neck and hide from the swaying bodies around them. To hide from his face. But that's not the point of this. Bellamy's forehead crinkles momentarily. Then he shakes his head minutely, catches Clarke's free hand and twirls her energetically enough to draw a surprised laugh from her lips. She nods once back to him and begins rocking her hips loosely to the beat of the song. It makes her think of people running through the jungle at night. Bellamy wraps a hand very loosely around the curve of her waist and pulls her a little closer, though there's still a fair few inches of space between their chests. 

"Ready to put on a show?" he ducks down to whisper to her over the loud music. 

"Mhmmm," she nods, trying to suppress a shiver. What the hell is happening to her? 

_We were bold and young_

_All around the wind blows_

_We would only hold on to let go._

He catches her gently underneath her chin once more with two fingers and draws her eyes up to his. This time, she doesn't jerk away. 

"Then you've got to pretend you actually like me." 

She bites her lip, looks away. 

"I don't  _hate_  you." 

There's a flash of Bellamy's teeth. 

"Now there's a solid start." 

And then they're just ... dancing. She can tell it's not Bellamy's thing - come to think of it, she never seen him dance except that one time at Octavia's sweet sixteen. But that was a hot summer day down by the shore. The alcohol was flowing freely, and he was light and loose and happy. Plus, Murphy goaded him into it and Octavia pleaded. It only lasted a few seconds, and he'd ended up in the turquoise waves swimming away from them all and holding his middle finger up over the waves as they catcalled. Still, he actually does have rhythm when he tries. Clarke lets her arms float up into the air to give him room at her waist. When they come back down, her hands land awkwardly on the insides of his elbows. His skin scorches. 

"A little less robotic, Princess." 

He tickles her sides so abruptly she doesn't see it coming, can only yelp in protesting laughter in response. Bellamy takes the opportunity to whirl her around until she ends up breathless, head against his chest, back flush with his front. 

_Blow a kiss, fire a gun_

_All we need is someone to lean on._

"Ok with this?" he asks. 

She's keenly aware of his thumb brushing over a small patch of her forearm. It's raising goosebumps to the surface of her skin. She wonders if Bellamy even notices. 

"Yeah." 

Everything about him at her back feels strong and solid and sure. Like it could hold her up, support her. A long, dirty blonde braid catches her attention as it whips around and barely misses smacking Jasper in the face. Suddenly she's got a clear view of Harper. Her friend is blatantly staring at her - mouth open and eyebrows high. Anxiety begins bubbling up in Clarke's throat, but then Harper just  _winks_  and turns her attention back to the mosh pit antics of Jasper and Monty. Quickly, she scans the room, in search of anybody else who's noticed her. 

_Way to play it cool, Griffin._

Octavia is easy to spot. She rubbed glitter all up and down her arms, and she's undulating like a genie in a bottle near Murphy of all people. He's got his eyes closed and his palms beating through the air like he's playing drums. Probably high. What the fuck? What happened to Atom? 

"Stop thinking so much. You're supposed to be having fun. Unless you don't know how..."

The words snap her attention back to Bellamy. Ever the instigator trying to rile her up with a challenge. His fingers are coasting like moths around her hip bones, not really touching. 

"I can be fun," she growls. 

"Yeah, that's the spirit," Bellamy laughs into her hair.   

_What will we do when we get old?_

_Will we walk down the same road?_

_Will you be there by my side_

_Standing strong as the waves roll over?_

On impulse, she slides her hands down from where they rest against his bronze forearms, slipping her fingers between the gaps of his own and applying light pressure. Bellamy's answer her with a firm squeeze of his own, and a lightening bolt pulses through her chest.  _Vodka, I'm never drinking vodka again..._

A knot of giggling girls breaks up in front of them, several running off toward the kitchen probably in search of more booze. But it leaves a clear path through the living room where she can see the bright red of Raven's jacket and Finn's pale face - directed right at her. 

_When the nights are long_

_Longing for you to come home_

The rough scratch of Bellamy's jeans takes little bites out of the backs of her thighs as he presses closer. He takes their linked left hands up and rests his arm across her stomach, leaning down. "Time to sell it," he reminds her. 

It's like something snaps in her brain watching Raven's contented smile from where she rests her cheek on Finn's shoulder. Clarke brings up her right hand to the back of Bellamy's neck and plays with the thick, dark hair there. It's softer than she would have thought. He freezes for half a second, but she's already peering up at him, wide-eyed and innocent. He purses his lips just for her benefit. She grins up at him, all teeth, and sashays her hips into his groin. Yup, a foreign alien being has overtaken her brain. 

"Ok, that might be over-selling it," he grits. 

"You love it like the attention whore you are, Blake." 

She glances up in time to see anger flash across Finn's face. It's sharply satisfying to in this one moment have a mystical power over him for a change. Still, she's happy Bellamy can't see the rosy red crawling up her neck at her brazen actions.  _Seriously, what am I doing?_

_Blow a kiss, fire a gun_

_We all need someone to lean on._  

As Finn refocuses on Raven who seems to be saying something to him, Clarke's body deflates, finally relieving itself of the tension she'd been holding onto. She sags a little against Bellamy, letting him hold her up as she drops her arm. 

"Mission accomplished?" 

The room is too hazy, the people too loud in their raucous singing.

"I've got to go," she mumbles, though she knows he won't be able to hear her over the din. 

"Clarke!" 

His voice is already distant as she pushes past a football player who looks like he belongs on the cover of a romance novel - Roan, maybe? - chugging a beer while his band of buffoons cheer him on. She's back at closet, tugging her jacket on in no time before diving back into the crowd, intent on calling an Uber and cocooning herself under her quilts for the foreseeable future. She moves as quickly as she can manage down the hallway, black jacket making her far less conspicuous than her dress, which, if truth be told, bears some resemblance to Dorothy's ruby slippers. Octavia's on a couch on the far side of the room, hands waving animatedly in the air next to Murphy who's shaking his head at whatever she's saying.  _Whatever, she'll catch up with her friend at school._

The glass front door of this nouveau riche condo is just five feet away when a heavy hand lands on her shoulder. 

"Bellamy!" The name's already falling from her mouth as she stops and turns, but it's not Bellamy standing so close to her. 

It's Finn.

His brown eyes are glassy, and he's chewing on his lip. The sweet smell of something fruity sticks to him.  

"Please, Clarke. Don't go. I'm sorry." 

She tries to shake his hand from her body. He just slides it down to her bicep, rubbing a thumb along the cloth of her jacket. 

"Let go of me, Finn!" she spits. 

His hand falls; he looks like she's slapped him. 

"I've known Raven since we were in the sandbox. She lived on my street," he tries to explain with a shrug. "We were high school sweethearts, but I told her I needed a fresh start before I moved here." 

"Yeah," Clarke says nastily. "That's exactly what it looked like to me." 

"It's true!" he insists, trying to reach out for her again, but she jerks back. His hand falls immediately, and he digs both of them into his baggy pockets before watching her hesitantly. "You put all this together for me and I ... I do like you, Clarke. A lot." 

Clarke scoffs. 

"Don't let your girlfriend hear you say that." 

"Hear him say what?" comes the booming voice that can only belong to one person. 

Bellamy is shrugging on his own coat, a sulky looking Octavia at his heels. 

"This conversation doesn't concern you, Blake," Finn nearly snarls. 

Octavia is glancing between the two with narrowed eyes and a suspicious twitch to her mouth. 

"You ready to go home?" Bellamy looks around Finn directly at Clarke. 

It's just too much. All at once. She can't even find the right words. 

"Um..." she rakes a hand through her wavy blonde mane, realizing it's starting to frizz from all the body heat. Water is what she needs "I just... need to go." She wrenches the door open, sighing at the wave of cool air that greets her. 

"Wait, Clarke!" 

Finn's hand closes marble hard around her wrist. 

It happens so fast. She pulls herself free of his grip, stumbling backward over the threshold just as Bellamy moves forward to force Finn back. Clarke realizes a second too late that her center of gravity is slipping, despite her lack of heels. One foot drags too heavy over the cement walkway and then she's falling backward, leg on fire where it skids on the unforgiving ground just before her head snaps back on the wrought iron stair rail. 

"Clarke!" Her name is being yelled from a fuzzy place by a high-pitched voice. There's a splash of chocolate hair and glitter and then the smell of a campfire surrounding her. She tries to sit up, bringing up a hand to shield her eyes. 

"Easy, Princess. Don't move." 

She lays back down again, being pulled under by the weight of the night. The voice is a rumble, waves crashing on the sand. The fingers on her head are soft, pressing tenderly until she winces. 

"Owww," she whines. 

"Ok, it's ok. Can you open your eyes for me?" 

She does. Bellamy's freckles are dancing again. He smiles at her, a real one this time. She can always tell the difference. 

"How many fingers am I holding up?" he asks. 

"Seriously?" 

"Answer the question." 

"Three." 

"Where are we right now?" 

"Finn's." 

"What's Octavia's middle name?" 

"Leanne." 

"Where did you first meet Wells?" 

"I've known him my whole life. Our parents were best friends." 

"How many--"

"Bellamy, enough!"

There's very limited bite in her voice.

Bellamy cradles her head with the back of his hand as he helps her sit up. She has the wild urge to pull down on her dress, hoping she's not giving the faces gawking in the doorway a free show. Following her eyes, Bellamy shrugs off his own jacket and delicately helps her into it. It falls past the hem of her dress, so that's something. 

"Can you stand up?" Octavia's there now, crouching down beside her. 

"My leg," Clarke nods down to the deep scrape running from her mid-calf to her mid-thigh. Her ankle is starting to swell from where she twisted at the wrong angle. 

A secure arm finds its way under her knees, and the next moment, she's being drawn up against Bellamy's chest, with one of his hands wrapped protectively around the growing lump on her head as he moves them down the stairs and into the night. When they hit the landing, Clarke can see the dark features of Wells peering over the banister, worry on his face. 

"I'll call you tomorrow, Clarke!" he calls down. 

She nods, waving one lazy hand in acknowledgement. 

"This is unnecessary," she mumbles to Bellamy, who ignores her. 

"Happy Harvard, asshole," Octavia snarks, before pushing past Finn and hurrying after her brother. 


	3. Chapter 3

Bellamy’s Jeep Cherokee reminds of her of an overlarge rhinoceros from this angle. Octavia’s already behind the wheel, revving the engine to life and flooding the damp grass with lemon light. 

“O, you’re not driving!” Bellamy barks, trying to keep his voice low. 

“Relax, I can totally handle it,” Octavia snaps back. “Plus, someone needs to be with Clarke, and she looks-” the glittering brunette rises from the gap between the frame of the Jeep and its door and smiles cat-like at her brother, “Comfortable with you.” 

“You’ve been drinking - out of the question.” 

Clarke can hear the rumble of his words where her ear’s pressed near the center of his chest. 

“I had one drink the whole night. I’m absolutely fine,” Octavia returns. “It’s way more fun to people-watch when you’re not shitfaced.” 

“Then what’s your excuse for dancing with Murphy?” Clarke croaks. 

Both Blakes’ attention ricochets back to her, and she keeps her gaze as steady on Octavia as possible. “You ok? Do you want us to take you to the hospital?” Bellamy’s face is suddenly near hers, breath coasting over her cheek and eyes full of concern. “I think that’s what we should do...” 

Clarke tries for her most stern expression - but her head’s pounding where she bumped it - and taps at the bone of Bellamy’s shoulder. “I’m ok... my leg took the worst of it, and my head hit the gap between the railings. I’m not dizzy, not seeing things blurry, don’t feel like throwing up...” 

“I agree with Bell,” Octavia cuts over her. “I want you to see a doctor, just to be sure.” Raising her chin toward the backseat, she motions for her brother to take Clarke there. 

Clarke whines, pouting up at Bellamy. The last thing she needs tonight is to run into her mother at the hospital and have to explain why she’s wearing what she’s wearing and how she got hurt. 

Bellamy’s laughter is dry. “As impressive as listening to you rattle off the signs of a concussion in your state is, Princess, spending one summer working at the free clinic doesn’t make you a medical expert.” 

Clarke hears the Blakes arguing from her curled up position on the back seat. Octavia must have thrown the ragged blanket Bellamy keeps back here over her because she certainly doesn’t remember doing it. It’s a little scratchy and smells like pine, but the leather cushion is soft under the undamaged part of her head. The moon is big and yellow through the sunroof, a few branches criss-crossing its face. 

Not surprisingly, Bellamy winds up opening the door to the driver’s seat less than a minute later, Octavia hopping into the passenger side. “You all right, Clarkie? We’re gonna take care of you,” she smiles back at her friend, reaching out to pat her arm. 

“Just peachy,” she murmurs. Her mother’s face is already looming from behind her eyelids. 

“Nope, don’t close your eyes,” Bellamy’s gruff tone makes her groan again. He turns on the God-awful Country Western station she knows he doesn’t even like. 

“Nah-uh,” she protests. 

“It’ll keep you awake,” he says with a smooth finality. She sees the flash of his dark eyes in the rear view mirror before she refocuses on the stars glinting overhead. 

+

“It’s ok - I can walk,” Clarke protests. Maya, her very friendly nurse, just wheeled her to the edge of the sidewalk at Alpha General. Bellamy went ahead to bring the Jeep around, and now he's crouching down in a way she’s sure means he’s about to pick her back up. The thought alone makes her heart shudder. She can’t even blame it on the alcohol at this point. 

No concussion, she was right. Just a banged up leg Dr. Jackson worked a few stitches into and slid a fluffy bandage over while Octavia held her hand. Mercifully, her mother was in the OR during her little visit - according to Maya who was big on the hospital gossip - and now they were going to be able to pull away from the glistening silver-and-steel complex without a harsh reprimand. 

"Don't be difficult," Bellamy replies, "The step-up is high, and you're not busting your stitches open right after the doctor put them in." So she slides her arm up around his neck and lets him scoop her up and deposit her carefully onto the back seat. 

"Don't forget to change your bandages!" Maya calls out before the door closes. "And drink lots of fluids to avoid getting dehydrated, so you'll heal faster!" 

Bellamy gives her a nod of acknowledgement then climbs back behind the wheel, slamming his door. 

"Too loud!" Octavia immediately protests. 

"Bite me." 

"We have a sick patient in the back seat!" 

Bellamy turns around to face Clarke, sliding a hand through his hair which is a thorough wreck since the last time she saw it. "My apologies, your royal  highness." 

Clarke just flips him off. 

"Glad to see you're feeling more normal." 

The easy rocking of the Jeep must lull her into a light sleep because the next thing she knows, they're jolting to a stop and Bellamy is cutting the engine. She doesn't register Octavia getting out of her seat. 

"Bell," she mumbles, rubbing her eyes. "I wanted to go home." 

When his gaze meets her tired one, his eyes are momentarily soft. 

"That's where I brought you." 

She blinks and looks up, confused, at the sight through the frost-covered window. It's the Blake's split-level. The blue shuttered, grey stone home seems embedded right in the hillside and always reminded Clarke of the house in The Brady Bunch. Clarke wraps her arms willingly around Bellamy's neck this time when he appears at her door side. He lifts her easily at the waist then deposits her smoothly onto the cement driveway and motions toward the front door. 

"Go on, you never needed a formal invitation before." 

She looks at his freckles in the moonlight, stares for maybe a second too long, before nodding and leaving him behind. 

Octavia is making a ruckus in the cozy kitchen, boiling water for hot chocolate and pulling out a stash of Entenmann's variety doughnut pack from on top of the refrigerator. 

"My mom always said a little sugar was the cure for everything," Octavia begins. 

"And mine always said but a lot could kill you," Clarke finishes the eons-old inside joke. 

She's halfway through her chocolate-frosted treat when something occurs to her. 

"What happened to Atom?" her hand lands on Octavia's wrist. "Did Bellamy scare him off?" 

"Oh..." Octavia rolls her light eyes. "I figured if he couldn't even stand up to my idiot of a brother, he probably wasn't worth the trouble." 

"I heard that!" Bellamy calls from the hallway.

"Meant for you to!" she sings back sweetly before leaning forward conspiratorially. 

"So tell me what Finn's deal was!" she demands, eyes gleaming. "He's obviously a douche for grabbing you like that, and I saw the Latina chick come out of nowhere but--"

Clarke sighs deeply and slumps back in her chair. The snaps on the jacket's back press uncomfortably along her shoulder blades. She realizes she's still wrapped up in Bellamy's clothes.

"Her name is Raven, and she's his girlfriend from San Francisco," she explains for the second time that night. It doesn't hurt much less this time around. It takes her a few minutes to share everything she knows. Octavia doesn't disappoint her. She's nothing if not astute. 

Her reaction is much like her brother's - right down to the way the skin around her eyes crinkles menacingly. 

"That absolute  _dick_!" she explodes palm thudding on the table. "After everything we did for him! After the way he was flirting with you and taking you out on romantic walks through the park!" 

A lead balloon sinks down in Clarke's stomach. 

"I know," she sighs, pushing her hair up off her neck and wrapping it up in a bun on top of her head with the elastic band stored on her wrist. 

"Hey," Bellamy knocks twice on the wood frame of the kitchen door. "I'm going to bed. You two need anything?" 

Clarke glances up, reverie broken, and takes in his green flannel pajama bottoms, faded ACDC shirt and damp hair from the shower. A thin strip of skin appears when he reaches across his torso to scratch his shoulder. She looks away so fast she gets a crick in her neck. 

"I think we're good," Octavia returns. If she notices Clarke's weirdness, she completely avoids it. "Clarke'll just crash upstairs with me." 

The house had a wide loft with a sloped ceiling Octavia had claimed as her own as a little girl. 

"That's too many stairs for her to walk up with her leg," Bellamy says. 

Octavia frowns. 

"That's ok!" Clarke jumps in, desperate not to be a burden. "I can sleep on the couch. No big deal. I'll get out of your way first thing tomorrow morning." 

 _Yeah, and face mom_ , she inwardly groans. It would be a small miracle if Maya hadn't blabbed the whole story to her superior by now. Still, Clarke glances at her cell - no new texts from her mom. There were three texts from Finn though and two from Wells, none of which she had the energy to read. 

"I'll take the couch," Bellamy shakes his head. "You'll take my room." 

Nobody said a thing about the third bedroom. Aurora's. It hadn't been touched since the night Octavia answered the phone and collapsed to the floor. 

"Bellamy,  _no_ ," Clarke insists. Was he trying to win martyr points or something? He was definitely being  _too_  nice. She raises an eyebrow at him in their nonverbal for  _What the hell?_ "I want the couch."

"You hit your head and got stitches in your leg. Just take the damn bed, Clarke." 

"You've got to work tomorrow. You take the bed!" 

"It's a construction job. I'm not building a nuclear bomb. I'll be fine!" 

"Ok, ok! I can see  _this_  has no end in sight," Octavia jumps up and drops her and Clarke's mugs in some soapy water in the sink before throwing away the doughnut box. She swoops in like a lithe ballerina to press a kiss to Clarke's temple. "Sleep tight, babe." She punches Bellamy on the shoulder and heads off in the direction of the stairs, leaving Clarke speechless behind her. 

Bellamy shifts by the counter, digging his hands into his pockets. "Just take the bed, all right?" he pesters once more. The familiar crease he gets above his brows when he was annoyed is cropping up. 

Ok," Clarke relents at last, playing with the chipping paint on one of her fingernails. 

"If you ever wonder why chivalry is dead, Princess, this is it," Bellamy huffs, pouring himself a glass of water. 

"Wait," Clarke twists too fast in her chair to watch him beside the refrigerator and a stabbing pain shoots through her head. "Oww" she winces. 

Bellamy's warm fingers trace the side of her cheek, hand cupping the back of her neck from out of nowhere. "What'd you do?" he demands. 

"It's nothing ... I'm fine. Turned too fast," Clarke says and begins shrugging out of his jacket, trying to hand it back to him. "Here." 

"You could just give it back to me next time you come over," Bellamy walks back to retrieve his water. 

"What the hell, Bellamy?" Clarke finally snaps, dropping his jacket on the vacant chair beside her. She has half a mind to zip up her own thin jacket rather than leave the upper half of sparkly dress exposed, but ... it also kind of seems weird to do that. 

"What?" he takes a long drink that gives her an excellent view of his Adam's apple. 

"Why are you being nice to me out of nowhere?" 

Bellamy scoffs. 

"Because you hurt yourself, genius. Was I supposed to leave you to bleed out on the street?" 

"Dramatic much?" 

"Fine, if the idea of my bed bothers you so much, you can sleep on the couch," he starts to walk past her. 

"Wait!" she grabs at his arm. He came to a halt, staring at her expectantly. 

"What?" 

A heat passes momentarily over her that has absolutely nothing to do with the HVAC system. A second later, a picture flashes through her mind of curving into Bellamy's side under his rumpled sheets... _hold it right there, Griffin._ It was becoming highly unlikely Maya gave her a simple Advil at the hospital. 

"Cat got your tongue?" 

"Don't be a jerk." 

"You're the one who starts sentences you don't finish. Oh I know!" Bellamy pretends to stroke his chin thoughtfully. "You were going to suggest  _sharing_  the bed, weren't you?" He slaps his forehead with his palm in fake insight. "Why didn't I think of that?" 

He turns to her, expecting her to smirk at the bad joke or at least have a sharp retort. But she only feels her face heating up. Bellamy's eyes narrow. 

"Wait ..." he says slowly, perching one hand on the table in front of her and leaning into her space. "That is what you were going to say, isn't it?" 


	4. Chapter 4

Clarke Griffin has never stuttered in front of Bellamy Blake in her life. But the incoherent squawks pouring out of her mouth are truly embarrassing. 

 

"W-W-What? N-No, I-I n-na-never said that!" 

 

Bellamy seemingly takes pity on her, patting her arm lightly and drawing away. 

 

"Relax, Princess. I realize it's a disgusting concept to you."

 

He grins crookedly, but she thinks there might be the slightest crack in it. The next second though he's walking over to the cloth recycling basket beside the sink where Octavia chucked the doughnut box, and she's sure she imagined it. 

 

"You guys eat real garbage, you know that?" He holds up the box near face level, eyes scanning the nutrition label. "Do you know how much sugar is in here?" 

 

"Yeah, yeah," she laughs weakly. "We're horrible and going straight to Hell, you've told me before." 

 

"I wouldn't go  _that_  far," Bellamy retorts. "I'm not heartless. I'm sure if you start eating spinach now with every meal, you could at least get into Purgatory."

 

Clarke laughs brokenly, convinced it sounds too high-pitched. She zips up her jacket, the quiet vvvrrrip of it cutting through the still air. Bellamy tracks the movement past the deep-V of her dress, and she's more certain she's not imagining this, hit to the head or not. 

 

"I'll make something healthy for breakfast." 

 

"You really don't have to." 

 

Bellamy waves her off, pushing a glass of water in her direction. "Don't forget to take the painkiller if you need it before you go to sleep." 

 

Clarke makes a face. 

 

"What now?" he sighs, rubbing a hand across his five o'clock shadow. He looks tired, she realizes for the first time. Light lavender rings shade the space under his eyes, more visible in the warm glow of the kitchen. He's probably working too hard down at the construction site again. 

 

"I don't like drugs if I don't have to take them. They always have a disgusting aftertaste." 

 

"Ok," Bellamy sits down in the seat next to her and crosses his arms over his chest as she takes a sip of water. "I can mash one up into powder and mix it into applesauce or something."

 

"Super unnecessary," she says, softer, turning the slick glass around and around in her hands. 

 

"It's no big deal. I used to do it for O when she got sick and wouldn't take her medicine."   

 

"That's all right," Clarke stands, the quiet stretch of energy hanging between them becoming too much. Her leg still aches but not as much as before. "I'll see you in the morning. Thanks ... for everything." She's three steps toward the living room when he says her name in that commanding way she used to hate. It reminds her of when he called for her and Octavia to stop playing freeze tag with the neighborhood kids and come inside for dinner during the summers when the sun still hung low in the sky. 

 

He walks past her toward his room at the end of the hall and motions for her to follow him. After a few beats she does, hand leaning up against the soft grey paint to steady her steps. She hasn't been inside Bellamy's room since she was seven and he almost pushed her off the top bunk of his bed during an argument over whether Gryffindor or Slytherin was the most powerful Hogwarts house. Of course he told Aurora he hadn't  _meant_ to do it, and he did grab her hand as she hung over the side of the bed to keep her from plummeting to what felt like her death at that age. But still. 

 

Bellamy opens a dresser drawer and pushes a pair of his black boxers and a plain T-shirt into her surprised hands. "Easier than me trying to find the clothes you left upstairs," he says. "Make yourself at home. Not like you've ever needed help with that," he smirks. "'Night."  

 

His arm brushes against hers as he walks back out. There are sparks. Like an actual static electricity reaction. Shaking her head, she means to step back but can't. She eyes his wide bed full of pillows and a rich green comforter. Everything seems so neat, much neater than she keeps things, from his book shelves full of peeling Greek classics to his collection of army video games. 

 

"Goodnight, Bellamy," she calls quietly after his shadow before closing the door and walking into the bathroom to change and splash water on her face.  _No, this was not how she'd seen her night going at all._

_+_

She's exhausted. Utterly spent. But she can't sleep. First the skin around her bandage is itchy, though she's afraid to scratch at it. Then she can't find a comfortable position that doesn't press against the tender spot on her head. No matter which way she turns, Bellamy's scent sticks to the pillowcase and sheets - it's like she's in a pine forest about to cut down a Christmas tree. After an hour of tossing and turning, it's the need for water that forces her up. Her throat is dry and cracked, and it's getting hard to swallow.  

 

The bedroom door opens with a creak, causing her to wince. She slips down the hallway treading lightly on her bare feet toward the faint, neon green glow of the microwave clock. She's almost to the refrigerator when she stumbles on a chair leg she left pushed out in her haste before, twisting her ankle the wrong way. 

 

"Owwww!" she cries out, a flare of fire shooting up her already injured leg. Immediately, she slaps a hand over her mouth.

 

"Clll-aaarke?" Bellamy's sleep voice hails from the living room. 

 

_Shit. Stealth is so not my thing._

She edges back around the counter to the archway leading  into the living room. Bellamy's already sitting up, reaching for his glasses and pushing his mop of curls away from his face. 

 

"You ok? What happened?" 

 

"I'm fine," she whispers, fingertips pressed to the wall. "Sorry, I'm just a klutz. I got up for some water and fell over one of the chairs. It was stupid. Go back to sleep." 

 

But Bellamy's already getting to his feet. He turns on a lamp that floods the cramped living area and adjoining kitchen in hazy light. 

 

"Let me take a look." It's a command, not a suggestion. 

 

"You don't know the first thing about first aid," Clarke argues when he brushes past her and begins rummaging in the freezer. She follows him, limps along more like. The cool air exits the space and hits her skin like little pinpricks. With one hand wrapped around the top of the freezer door, Bellamy spares her a skeptical glance. "Do you have any idea how many trees Octavia tried to climb growing up?" 

 

Clarke opens her mouth but then closes it again, distracted by the way Bellamy's eyes flicker down briefly before jumping back up to her face. Right, she's wearing his clothes. More accurately, she's wearing his thin T-shirt without a bra as cold air blows onto her chest. Perfect. Folding her arms over her chest would be too obviously awkward. So she clears her throat instead and hopes the lack of fluorescent light keeps her blush under wraps. 

 

"No, I don't." She has the wherewithal to answer his question.

 

"A lot," Bellamy says shortly, taking extra care to make his "t" crack as he smirks down at her. "Hop up on the table." 

 

"What?!" 

 

"Unless you want me to pick you up and put you up there myself. I can if you can't manage." 

 

The sick thing is she can't even tell if he thinks he's genuinely being helpful or if he knows he's an ass. 

 

"You're a piece of work," she grits, rubbing her hands once up and down her arms to soothe the goosebumps. Then she does as she asks, leaning against the worn, wooden kitchen table and using her arms to lift up onto it. Bellamy pulls a bag of frozen peas from the back of the freezer and closes the door before rummaging around in the Blake's "junk drawer" for what feels like an eternity before pulling out something brown and stretchy. He tosses it on the table before sliding into the seat next to her and delicately feeling around her ankle.

 

"Does this hurt?" he asks, pressing his forefinger into a patch of skin that makes her hiss. 

 

"Yes of course it does, idiot. Don't you see the bruise already starting to form? It's swelling." 

 

He looks up into her face, really looks at it, and she realizes she washed off all her makeup an hour ago. She wishes it didn't make her feel so laid bare. Her hair probably resembles a landscape after a hurricane ripped through, all curly frizz. Bellamy hasn't seen her "less than publically acceptable" in a long time. 

 

"Easy, Princess," he rasps. "Just trying to help." 

 

Her mouth wiggles back and forth, lips pursed. 

 

"Then get on with it," she tries for regal. He rolls his eyes. 

 

"You're a real damsel in distress today, aren't you?" 

 

"I am not," she argues. Force of habit. "I told you to go back to sleep. I can handle this." 

 

"Sure you can," Bellamy sighs. "Hold this," he drops the cold, lumpy peas and brown fabric into her lap before pushing his chair back and scooping her back up into his arms. 

 

"What the hell, Bellamy?" she hits his shoulder. "I can walk!" 

 

"Barely. You're a fucking disaster." 

 

The couch is a spacious sectional, black cloth that's soft to touch the way she imagines a panther might feel. Bellamy sits down and drapes her to his right, shifting her sideways so her back is against the pillows and her feet are in his lap. 

 

"Interesting nail polish choice," he smirks down at her toes, each one painted a different color to incorporate the full rainbow plus pink, grey and black. 

 

Clarke makes a face. "I was bored." 

 

"You need a hobby." 

 

"Painting  _is_  my hobby," she huffs, reaching forward to tap the back of his head with the flat of her palm. 

 

"All right, do you want me to help with this or not?" His eyes burn into her face when he turns though he cradles her ankle gently. She likes the contrast of her skin against his, cream on bronze. 

 

"Yes, please, Doctor Blake," she bats her eyelashes exaggeratedly and puts on a falsetto before falling promptly backwards into the pillow and going limp, pain starting to take over. 

 

Bellamy spends a long two minutes poking and prodding at her ankle, trying to wiggle it and examining the swelling. 

 

"I think you just sprained it," he says at last, shifting a plush pillow with leopard print gently under her foot and sliding the peas back in place over the swollen area tinged lilac-lime. Her shoulder jerks forward when his fingertips move against her calf. "Nothing the RICE method won't cure." 

 

"Where's the compression?" Clarke demands like it's a quiz. 

 

Bellamy holds up the brown scrap of cloth. "This is a compression bandage. You can wear it tomorrow when you need to walk around." 

 

"So I'm just supposed to sit here with peas on my foot all night then, huh?" It's half-teasing, half-annoyance. 

 

He responds by patting her good thigh and then reaching forward to pull the spring of one of her rare curls. 

 

"You don't have to. You can go back to my bed. Nobody's making you stay if you can't bear my company." 

 

His smile is all charm, and if she were a girl who didn't know better--well, that's irrelevant. 

 

She crosses her arms over her chest and actually  _pouts_. 

 

"Don't worry, Princess. Netflix will keep you from having to talk to me." He reaches for the remote and flicks on the TV before hitting the red button and beginning to flip through the options. 

 

"I kind of wanted to start American Horror Story--"

 

"The Haunting of Hill House," Clarke interjects. "It's getting great reviews." 

 

Bellamy raises a skeptical eyebrow at her. 

 

"What? It is! Have you seen it already?" 

 

"No." 

 

"So you don't trust me?" 

 

"I've learned to never trust your taste in TV shows." 

 

"Oh my God, Bellamy. Keeping Up with the Kardashians was just a phase. Everyone needs a little trash TV in their lives." 

 

"I seem to recall you needing more than a little." 

 

She grabs a free pillow and lobs it at his head. He ducks and curses, but there's not much heat in it. 

 

"Don't bite the hand that heals you." 

 

The voila-type sound rings from the TV, the one that indicates Bellamy selected something, and Clarke turns her head with a snap. Hill House. She won. Why, she can't really be sure. He hits play and stretches up to shut off the lamp, still keeping a bracing hand on the peas locked to her ankle. In the haze of the low TV light, she takes in his profile - strong jaw, good, straight nose. That twisty thing is back in her stomach. She's sleepy, and her inhibitions are lower, it's true. There's absolutely no doubt she's going to regret this in the morning. 

 

"Bellamy?" she asks, voice small. 

 

"Yeah?" 

 

"This is a scary show." 

 

"So the name would lead me to believe." 

 

"Then can I ... " Her throat's dry again, heart beating a little too fast. 

 

"What? Spit it out," he presses pause, annoyance drawn into the lines around his mouth. 

 

She sighs loudly. 

 

"Can I sit next to you?" 

 

It wasn't what he was expecting if his facial reaction is any indication. 

 

"The Princess is scared, and it hasn't even started yet?" he grins. 

 

"Shut up, or I'll make you watch Gossip Girl." 

 

He looks her over carefully for an exaggerated moment, eyes lingering on his boxers hugging her hip before he relents and lifts up the blanket he was using earlier to make room for her. "Pillow here," he points to the table and makes her elevate her leg once more, sliding the bag of peas back over her ankle. 

 

She slides as delicately as she can into the space next to him, careful to leave a few inches of space between their shoulders, elbows, and legs. 

 

"You good now?" 

 

He's trying to act annoyed, but she can tell he isn't. Not really. 

 

"I'm perfect, thank you," she sings out, saccharine. 

 

In truth, her body is humming like a swarm of bees just set up residence inside. Bellamy is giving off too much heat from under the blanket. He stretches his right arm out over the back of the couch. She wanted to rest her head on the back of the couch, but that seems dangerously too close to leaning on his shoulder now. Still, her neck is heavy and tense with staying so stiffly upright. Maybe this was not the best idea. 

 

She makes it a good 15 minutes into the pilot until that little girl, Nell, is laying flat on her back on the couch, breathing heavily and staring at the ceiling as if the devil himself is right above her ready to swallow her whole. She's not a moron. She saw the trailer. She knows any second now the dark, levitating form of some kind of specter will appear ready to attack. Yet it's when Bellamy's hand settles on her thigh unexpectedly, and he turns to her to husky-whisper, "Scared yet, Princess?" that she actually jumps.

 

"Ahhhh!" she shrieks, and Bellamy slides a palm over her mouth to stifle the sound. 

 

"Easy," he breathes, pointing toward the ceiling where Octavia sleeps above them. He's too close, way too close, the tip of his nose just a few inches from hers. 

 

"Don't do that to me!" Clarke is still breathing heavily when Bellamy releases his hand and leans away slowly. He's hit pause on the show again. 

 

"Didn't realize you were so jumpy." 

 

"I have nothing to hide behind during the scary parts," she finds herself admitting. 

 

"You do realize you wanted to watch this, don't you?" Bellamy looks incredulous.

 

"Yeah, but I always hide under an afghan with holes, so I can peek through." 

 

"Sorry to disappoint," Bellamy gestures down at the navy blue cloth, totally solid, blanket. He's watching her again, out of the corner of his eye, the expression on his face hard to read. Then something settles in his eyes that looks like a decision and he lifts the blanket up a bit. "Come here."  

 

"Huh?" She's sure she heard him wrong. 

 

He removes the peas from her ankle, tossing them onto the table, and presses his fingers into her waist feather-light, moving her toward his chest. 

 

"You can hide under the blanket this way," he offers. 

 

Clarke bites her lip, staring into Bellamy's dark eyes. He looks back openly, almost as if he's daring her to argue. But she's too tired and too tense. Without thinking any further about it, she collapses into his side, head resting on his shoulder, and lets out a contented sigh when he wraps the blanket securely around her. His arm snakes around her back and finds purchase on her hipbone. Ten minutes later, she's sound asleep. 

 


	5. Chapter 5

The aroma of crackling grease brings Clarke back to consciousness the next morning. She feels tucked away and cozy, and for a moment when she opens her eyes, she has no idea where she is. A blanket is pulled up almost to her ears, and the surface below her is soft and a tad fuzzy. As she shifts, there's an ache in her leg, and the memories from last night come back in a rush. 

 

A glass of water and her ankle brace rest on the table, and she reaches for the stretch of cloth, slipping it over her tender skin. She makes it to the breakfast nook and turns, raising her eyebrows at the sight that greets her in the kitchen. 

 

Bellamy's in front of the stove, cooking what appears to be an omelet, while two sausage patties sizzle in the neighboring pan. 

 

"You slept late, Princess," he says, flipping an omelet with true dexterity. He's already dressed for work on the construction site - down to the heavy duty boots and white T-shirt stained with red streaks of dirt that can never quite come out in the wash. 

 

"Shit, sorry, I know you've got to get to work."

 

"It's ok," Bellamy shrugs. "I've got some time." 

 

Clarke looks to the microwave - it's nearly 10 a.m. Sitting beside it is a blender full of still-whole greens, berries and a piece of banana. 

 

"Where's Octavia?" 

 

"She has that kickboxing class Saturday mornings. She left a few minutes ago." 

 

"Oh," she's not sure why this knowledge unsettles her. It's not like she's never been alone with Bellamy before. Just not lately. In his house. "I can't believe I slept through all that." 

 

"You were out cold," Bellamy affirms, flipping a sausage. "But now that you're up," he moves to the refrigerator, pulls out a container -  _is that almond milk? -_ and pours some into the blender. "Do you want peanut butter, almond butter or cashew butter in your smoothie?" 

 

She just stares at him. "Huh?" 

 

"What?" 

 

There's tension in her jaw, and it's curling up into her head. Something just feels strange. "What is all this?" She throws her arms up in a wide arc. 

 

"It's breakfast." 

 

"Normally you throw a box of Cheerios at me and call it a day." 

 

"That's because I'm usually running to work when you get here on the weekends. I cook for O all the time," he shoots back easily. "I don't want the eggs to burn, Clarke. What kind of nut butter?" There's a touch of exasperation in his tone now. A vein pops diagonally above his left ear. 

 

"Peanut," Clarke says slowly, unsure of her answer. Actually, she's a little unsure of everything right now. She leans forward against the counter, running her nails nervously along the edge of it. "Umm, I wanted to say--"

 

"Hold on a sec." 

 

Finished scooping peanut butter into his concoction, Bellamy starts the blender, holding the lid tightly. The drink swiftly becomes hunter green, then berries bleed themselves into the mixture, and it settles on a blueberry color. 

 

"Ok, go ahead," Bellamy's moving faster now, pouring the smoothie into a container then crossing the kitchen to flip the eggs and sausage onto a plate before she can even begin to wrap her mind around the words. This uneasy tension isn't a sensation she's familiar with, at least not in the Blake house. But maybe it's just all in her head. She squeezes her eyes shut for a moment, shakes her head minutely before opening them again. He doesn't seem to have noticed. 

 

"I just wanted to say thanks ... for last night. You didn't have to take care of me like that." 

 

She swallows hard after the last syllable. There. It wasn't  _so_  difficult to be nice to him. Bellamy shrugs lightly, back to her as he grabs napkins from the porcelain holder. "No big deal." 

 

He brushes by her, arm grazing her own lightly on his way to set the plate down on the kitchen table. It zings. 

 

"Hurry up and eat if you want me to take you home before work," he gestures down at the place he set for her. "I need to finish getting ready." 

 

"No, that's ok ..."

 

It catches his attention. He pauses, eyes meeting hers for the first time. He rubs at the back of his neck. "You don't want me to take you?" He sounds unsure. 

 

Clarke bites her lip, suddenly feeling silly and exposed in his boxers and shirt. She senses her face heating up when she remembers how his eyes swept over her last night. "It's ok," she tries to smile. "I don't want you to be late. You did enough for me yesterday. I'll call an Uber." 

 

He stands there, half in the living room, and hesitates. 

 

"You sure?" 

 

Yeah. She's sure he already has enough intel on her from last night alone to torment her for the rest of her life. 

 

"You saved me from Finn. You did enough, I swear," she holds out a hand while she talks. "I was a mess last night. And I know you feel like you've got to stop me from making an ass of myself because I'm friends with Octavia, but really-"

 

"That's not how I feel," Bellamy says. There's a flash of something in the family of anger that sparks in his dark eyes. 

 

Clarke stumbles mid-sentence. "Oh. Ok, well, ummm, sorry." 

 

He steps closer to her, and the pine scent tickles her nose. Bellamy squeezes her forearm, but a second later, he lets his hand drop. "I took care of you because ... " for a second he seems conflicted before he lands on, "it's what I'd want somebody to do for O if it were her." 

 

She's literally standing there like a fish out of water, mouth opening and closing without an intelligent thought in her brain. 

 

_Of course. Because you're like his sister, Clarke. His very annoying little sister who he's got to bail out of shit._

 

"Right," she pushes a lock of hair behind her ear. "Well, I don't like being in anybody's debt. I owe you." 

 

Bellamy smirks. She ignores him. 

 

"So if there's anything you need, let me know." 

 

He gives a jerk of his chin before leaving the kitchen. "Noted." 

 

Clarke purses her lips then sighs as soon as he leaves, wincing a little and turning to the meal he made her.

 

"Get off your leg, Griffin!" Bellamy yells over his shoulder from the hall.  

 

+

 

It's two weeks later when she hears from Bellamy again. She's surprised - she hasn't actually seen him since the morning after her mortifying night at Finn's. The whispers in the hallway at school still trail her when she walks past. The girl two guys almost came to blows over, one of whom had a girlfriend standing right there while it happened. Though it's not like Bellamy would hear the murmurings since he graduated five years ago. All she needs is an embroidered scarlet letter on her chest to complete her wardrobe. 

 

So far, she's brushed off Finn's attempt to talk to her after calculus, in the cafeteria, beside her locker, and racing between cars in the parking lot as she tried to make it to English Lit before the morning bell. At one point, she'd even dived into the teacher's lounge to escape him walking up the hall, earning her a strange look from Mr. Pike. Arkadia High is too fucking small. 

 

She's curled up with a mug of spicy hot apple cider, staring at her blinking cursor and trying to figure out what the hell to say about the French Revolution when her phone vibrates. Her eyebrows lift clean up to her hairline when she reads the name. She can count on two hands the amount of times Bellamy's texted her - and almost every single message has centered on Octavia's whereabouts. 

 

**Bellamy Blake: Is your offer to do me a favor still good?**

**Clarke Griffin: Hi to you too.**

**Bellamy Blake: I didn't realize texting you came with rules.**

**Clarke Griffin: There are rules for everything, Blake.**

**Bellamy Blake: I'll have to keep that in mind.**

**Clarke Griffin: Please do.**

**Bellamy Blake: Are you this charming with everyone, or ...**

Clarke snorts into her cup. Abby pushes her reading glasses down her nose to watch her daughter. An assortment of medical files is spread out before her where she rests on the opposite couch. It looks like a filing cabinet exploded in their living room. 

 

"What's so amusing?" 

 

Clarke glances up, reverie broken, and puts down the drink.

 

"Nothing," she brushes her hand through the air. "Bellamy's just being an idiot." 

 

Abby chews thoughtfully on the tip of her glasses. "I didn't realize you two were on texting terms." 

 

Clarke frowns. 

 

"We're ... really not."

 

"Hmmm." Clarke can already tell Abby's forming an unfavorable opinion by the way the lines set in around her mouth. A weird, simmering annoyance splashes up in her gut. Over the last two weeks, her ankle and head have begun to heal, but the stitches are still pulling her skin tight and making her itch. She reaches down to scratch around the bandage. 

 

"You know he took me to the hospital when I was hurt." 

 

"Very aware," Abby nods. "Also aware of how he failed to call me although you were in the hospital where I work." 

 

"You were in the OR!" 

 

"But he thought I wouldn't want to hear that my only child had been injured?" 

 

Clarke throws out her arms in frustration. 

 

"You have to concentrate when you're cutting people open, mom! I was  _fine_. You found out a few hours later." 

 

"All I'm saying is that Bellamy knows full well I'd want to be contacted--"

 

"I told him not to have you notified!" Clarke nearly shrieks. 

 

It takes Abby aback for a few seconds before she recovers. 

 

"Still, he's known you long enough to-"

 

"That's the point! He's known me forever! Don't you trust him to take good care of me?" 

 

She's breathing harder than before and doesn't appreciate the close way her mother is surveying her. It makes her twitch and wish she could cover her face with Bellamy's blanket again. 

 

"I think you answered my question, dear," Abby clicks her tongue against her teeth. 

 

"Mom," she sighs in exasperation, "That's not it. We're barely even  _friends_." 

 

"Be careful, Clarke," is all Abby says as she returns to her work. Clarke knows when she's being shut down, but something forces her to keep talking despite the voice in her head telling her to shut up. 

 

"What the hell's that supposed to mean?" 

 

"Language," Abby snaps. 

 

"I want to know!" She's on her feet despite the wince that crosses her face as she puts a little too much pressure on her leg.

 

"Clarke," Abby scrubs a hand across her face. "Just listen to yourself right now. You're getting upset because I said I didn't realize Bellamy texted you." 

 

"I never heard you complaining about all the times he made sure I wasn't the last kid picked up from the after school program," she snips. 

 

Abby narrows her eyes. Clarke can tell she hit the mark at last. "I'm appreciative of everything the Blakes have done for you, of course." 

 

"Doesn't sound like it." 

 

"He's five years older than you, Clarke. He's ... " 

 

Clarke's hands move to her hips while she waits. Abby rubs the top of her nose before continuing.  

 

" ... just got more experience than you, sweetheart." 

 

"I don't want to date him," Clarke enunciates every syllable. 

 

"All right. Let's put this on hold for now, ok? I've got work to finish before the board meeting Monday, and you've got to finish your homework." 

 

Five minutes later, Clarke's flopped on her bed, iPhone in hand, contemplating what to write back. 

**Clarke Griffin: Then what would I have leftover for you?**

**Bellamy Blake: Thought I scared you off for a minute.**

**Clarke Griffin: It'd take a lot more than you to scare me.**

**Bellamy Blake: You're a real piece of work, Princess.**

**Clarke Griffin: Then you're texting me ... why?**

**Bellamy Blake: Because you owe me. Your words, not mine. Remember?**

**Clarke Griffin: Yes.**

**Bellamy Blake: Still up for it?**

**Clarke Griffin: Sure. What do you need?**

**Bellamy Blake: Can I call you?**

Clarke pauses, smiles down at the phone. Who even asks that? 

 

**Clarke Griffin: Yes, old man. You don't have to ask.**

A moment later, her harpsichord ringtone sounds. 

 

"What's up?" 

 

"Hey," Bellamy's voice is rough like sandpaper. 

 

"Hey yourself." 

 

"So I'm in a bit of a bind at work." 

 

"Which job?" 

 

"Cute." 

 

"I'm serious," Clarke says, flopping back on her pillows. Outside her window, a cardinal flies by. "It's hard to keep up." 

 

"We don't all have trust funds, Princess." 

 

"But enough with the flattery. What do you need?" 

 

Bellamy clears his throat. Clarke finds there's a little excitement stirring in her chest, although it's very possible he's going to ask her to clean toilets at Phoenix or something. 

 

"All right, here's the thing. I just got an assignment to sub for an art teacher at Mecha Girls Academy for a couple weeks before they can find someone more permanent. She needed to start her maternity leave unexpectedly early."

 

"Since when are you Van Gogh?"

 

" _Clarke_ -"

 

"No really, I'm curious," she teases. 

 

"I've worked there before filling in for the math teacher, McCreary, and it's his wife who's pregnant. He recommended me. They got caught off guard. I told them I'd help them out because I knew someone who was taking AP Art History and AP Studio Art who could lend her expertise." 

 

"And they  _agreed_?" 

 

"I'm convincing when I want to be." 

 

"No argument here." 

 

She can practically sense him rolling his eyes. 

 

"Ok ... so what do you need?" 

 

"Help with planning out a mural. These kids are already privileged and going to end up at some expensive liberal arts school anyway, so I figured if anyone could relate to them, it was you." 

 

"Gee, thanks." 

 

"If the shoe fits, Princess." 

 

"What's the mural?"

 

"They get to decide the topic, but it's going to be in the main lobby of the school, so it's got to make the right statement."

 

"Ok."

 

" _Ok_?" 

 

"Mhmmm." 

 

"As in you'll help me? No dragging this out and making me beg?" 

 

"You make me sound obnoxious." 

 

"If the shoe--"

 

"Don't make me change my mind, Blake," she cuts him off. 

 

He laughs drily. 

 

"Wouldn't dream of it. But ... " he hesitates. "There's one small problem." 

 

"What's that?" 

 

"I'm not sure how you're going to leave school to come help me out." 

 

Clarke frowns, though Bellamy can't see it. 

 

"What time is the class?" 

 

"1-2 p.m. Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays." 

 

"Oh, that's ok," Clarke brightens. 

 

"That simple?" 

 

"Yeah, it overlaps with my lunch and studio art time. I know I can convince Mrs. Kane to let me do it, especially since it’s a creative project.”

 

There's his chuckle again. 

 

"What?" 

 

"It must be nice to have every adult in a 50-mile radius eating out of the palm of your hand." 

 

"You're just jealous," she grins, cradling the phone to her ear. 

 

"That must be it," she thinks she can hear a tinge of humor in there somewhere. 

 

"So see you next Wednesday at 1?" 

 

"Yeah, Blake. Looking forward to it." 

 

"I bet you are." 

 

Clarke bites her bottom lip and pushes aside the thought that this might not be the best idea as a shiver slips up her spine. 


	6. Chapter 6

Mecha Girls Academy is an imposing structure. It's built of rich, red bricks and large, curved glass windows with garden paths branching off in orderly diagonal lines. Two towers grace the front of the structure, parallel to the main doors. And leaning against its front wall like a casual ad for Dockers is Bellamy Blake.  

 

Clarke swallows her smile. She never gets to see him in his teacher clothes, but he looks good. A crisp, navy button down shirt rolled up to his elbows, nice black pants, and dark loafers. He throws her a smirk as she approaches, stretching up off the wall like a jungle cat. 

 

"Hey kid," he calls out. "You made it." 

 

"It's not exactly far from Ark High," Clarke tosses back with a quirk of her eyebrow. Her boots click on the clean cement in a sharp, satisfying way. 

 

"It's not," Bellamy agrees. "And I guess a Princess can always find her way to a castle." 

 

"Ugh," Clarke rolls her eyes and pushes at his shoulder. Up close, the sun has raised several streaks of chestnut in his black curls. "Can you give it a rest for just one day?" 

 

Bellamy chuckles, but the grip his fingers maintain on her wrist is tight when she tries to pull her hand away. 

 

"I appreciate you coming," he says seriously, drawing her closer. "But try not to make me look like a total jackass in front of the kids, ok? I do work here." 

 

Clarke tilts her head to the side and bites her lip, surveying him. "I mean... I'll  _try_." 

 

"Why are you such a brat?" he scoffs, but she swears her heart misses a beat when he throws a loose arm around her shoulder and leads her toward the main office to collect a visitor pass. 

 

+

 

As it turns out, Mecha is a very well-endowed school. Clarke gasps in delight when she steps foot inside the gorgeous, airy studio classroom full of natural light. Her fingertips run reverently over the wide assortment of paints, brushes, easels and canvases the students have access to. 

 

"Guess art is more appreciated the wealthier your parents are," Bellamy says from his desk where he's doing something on his laptop. "I was lucky if I got to glue pieces of construction paper together as a kid." 

 

Clarke snorts in spite of herself. 

 

"I think most public schools don't have as much respect for art as they should," she replies, now mesmerized by a collection of oil pastels hanging on the wall. They're no doubt the product of the kids here, but their desert mountain sunsets and  flowing tango dancers seem too magically effervescent to come from the hand of a 14-year-old.

 

"Guess you just got lucky then." 

 

Clarke looks thoughtfully at him. "Yeah, I guess so." 

 

"You could have gone to a school like this," Bellamy meets her eyes over the top of the laptop. It's more of a challenge than a statement somehow. 

 

She frowns. 

 

"I don't think all the uniforms and rules are for me, Blake." 

 

His grin shows teeth. 

 

"Could've fooled me. You're always so  _orderly_." 

 

She opens her mouth to retort, but at that moment, the door to the studio bursts open, and a stream of chattering eighth-grade girls comes rushing inside the room like a small flood. Once they're all seated, Bellamy motions for Clarke to come stand by him at the front of the room. She's suddenly kind of nervous as so many eyes take in the embroidered flowers running up the thighs of her faded jeans and her worn tan leather jacket. 

 

"Girls," Bellamy calls out in a polite but commanding way that tells her he's fully in teacher mode now. "This is Clarke Griffin. She's going to be helping us out with the mural project. She's an advanced art student and senior at Arkadia High and has agreed to volunteer here as needed for the next few weeks." He glances at her, pushing his hair off his forehead. "She can work with both oils and acrylics, depending on what we decide. She can sketch well too. Please call her Ms. Griffin--"

 

"Bellamy, that's ok. They don't have to!" Clarke cuts in abruptly, a blush rising to her cheeks at his nonchalant praise. He never praises her. 

 

He shoots her a glare that makes her stomach flip. 

 

" _I'd_  prefer it if they did, and I know the rest of the faculty would too." 

 

She smiles tightly and nods once, gripping the edge of the desk behind her as a few titters race around the room. 

 

"Good, now as I was saying--"

 

He's interrupted again by a hand shooting straight up into the air. It belongs to a pale, blonde girl with an intricate braid woven down her back. 

 

"Yes, Charlotte?" 

 

"Is Clarke your girlfriend?" 

 

The tittering turns to outright giggles as the girls glance around at each other. Clarke wants the floor to open up and swallow her whole. She hopes nobody can hear her short moan of protest. 

 

"No, she's not," Bellamy says without missing a beat. "She's a good friend of my sister's." 

 

He stares Charlotte down openly until the mischief in her face simply dies. "Any other questions?" 

 

Clarke's not sure why it feels like she's been gut-punched, but it definitely does. Nothing he said about her was untrue. But it's just ... after Finn's party (not to mention their whole lives spent annoying the hell out of each other), she was kind of hoping he might think of her as his friend, too. But as the girls stay mute, Bellamy claps his hands together and asks them to form a circle with their chairs in the middle of the room, so they can begin discussing ideas for the mural. 

 

It becomes blatantly apparent to Clarke after several minutes that Charlotte and a petite, brunette girl with striking baby blue eyes, Madi, rule this roost. They team up and argue for a wide-scale panoramic of the nation's landscape, blending the Pacific ocean crashing on the dark rocks of the California coast into the red-orange glow of the grand canyon and the sweeping golden grain fields of the midwest. 

 

"It'll be amazing!" Madi sings out dreamily to her classmates. "Imagine a project where we can paint the Louisiana bayou  _and_  the Appalachian Mountains! Everyone in the school will like it because it will represent where everybody is from." 

 

Her peers are easily convinced of the plan. Bellamy quite frankly looks relieved that he doesn't have to referee any disagreements between them. Instead, he pulls up a large map of the nation on the smart board and divides it into sections, assigning them into groups covering the West, Southwest, Midwest, Southeast and Northeast. Clarke pulls out long rolls of sketch paper for them to begin drafting their ideas. It's kind of fun roaming the room and listening to their conversations,  _"Does Niagara Falls count if it's half in Canada?"_  and  _"Ice Age Flood Trail!? You've got to be making that up!"_

Clarke helps where she can - sketching a general outline of Mount Rushmore for a girl named Mel to trace over and shade and researching the precise dimensions of covered wagons for girl named Reese with strawberry blonde hair and bedazzled purple glasses. Occasionally, she feels eyes on the back of her neck and finds herself searching for Bellamy only to find him absorbed in helping his students. Before she knows it, the bell is ringing and she's falling back into a chair, waving goodbye to the girls and pulling her tangled mane into a high ponytail.

 

"Bye, Mr. Blake!" Charlotte bats her eyelashes at him on the way to the door. 

 

"Have a good day," he tells her. 

 

"Bye, Clarke!" Charlotte yells, pure mischief in her eyes as she ducks around the corner before Bellamy can reprimand her. 

 

"They're a handful," he admits, pulling off his dark-framed glasses and rubbing the space between his eyes. "But they're good kids. They'll have bright futures, good colleges ahead of them." 

 

"You're good with them," Clarke crosses one leg over the other and reaches out to toy with the paint kit in front of her, beginning to put it away neatly more to have something to do with her hands than anything else. 

 

It's quiet for a moment, but then she hears Bellamy's steady footsteps on the linoleum floor. The touch to her jean-clad thigh sends a splash of heat into her stomach. "Thanks for agreeing to help me. I do, uh, really appreciate it." 

 

"Don't mention it," she smiles up at him, and he grins back. "It was fun." 

 

He returns to rolling up the paper sketches the girls worked on, and after a minute passes, she gets up the nerve to speak again. 

 

"Have you given it any more thought?" 

 

"What?" 

 

"Grad school." 

 

He lets out a huff of air. She watches his jaw tick but stands her ground, watching him expectantly. 

 

"That's not happening, Princess." 

 

"But why not?" She tries to keep the whine out of her voice, but it's difficult. "You're smart enough! And you clearly like working with students. You'd make a good teacher or professor, Bell!" 

 

Aurora's death threw the Blakes for a loop; it's not like she doesn't know that. Bellamy, only 19 at the time, had risen to the task of keeping Octavia's life as normal as possible, jumping into a series of odd jobs to support them both and never complaining about it. Over the last two and a half years or so, he'd been going to night school at Arkadia University haphazardly, studying business management. From what Clarke could gather from Octavia, he could be done with his degree in another semester or two if he buckled down and focused. 

 

"What's it to you what I do, Princess?"

 

The tops of her shoulders are growing more tense. She hates when he acts snide and cocky like this. She wills herself to remain civil. 

 

"All I'm saying is you have talent, Bellamy. I know you're studying business, but you could go to grad school for  _anything_ like history or classics or --"

 

"What the hell am I going to do with that, Clarke?" he demands sharply. "I'm studying business because one day Kane's going to retire and give me Phoenix to run. The construction jobs pay well until then, and I can help out here when they need me." 

 

"I know all that but--"

 

"Stop it, Clarke!" 

 

There's a gentle rap at the door. 

 

"Come in!" 

 

It opens, revealing a tall, sleek brunette wearing a form-fitting forest green dress that somehow manages to show everything off while still being conservative. 

 

"Hi, Bellamy," she says brightly. It takes a moment for her good cheer to morph into confusion as she takes in his annoyed expression and then Clarke's presence. Her face falls a little. 

 

"Hey, Roma," he quickly recovers, throwing her a winning grin Clarke knows is meant to charm. It works. "What can I do for you?" 

 

"Oh," she pushes a shiny strand of hair behind her ear, somewhat hesitant but still giving him doe eyes. "I can come back later. I didn't realize you had a guest." 

 

Bellamy stands, waving the woman into the room. "I'm sorry, Roma, this is Clarke Griffin. She's my little sister Octavia's best friend and a great art student at Arkadia High. She's helping out with the entrance way mural the studio art class is working on. Clarke, this is Roma Bragg, English teacher." 

 

Roma extends her manicured hand out for Clarke to shake, and - remembering her years of cotillion training as though she's an automated robot - Clarke gracefully rises and greets her. 

 

"It's so nice to meet a friend of Bellamy's," she practically purrs. 

 

The woman must be able to sense the underlying tension soaking the air around them, but if she does, she brushes it aside. 

 

"Well that's so nice of you to volunteer and help our girls!" Roma smiles. "I apologize for interrupting. Bellamy," she turns back to him, tapping him lightly on the arm, "I'll catch you later, ok?" 

 

Clarke grits her teeth at the way Bellamy's eyes sweep over her body appreciatively.  _Sure, that looks scholarly._

"You're not interrupting anything important," he says, voice dropping an octave. "What did you need?" 

 

"Umm, I just wanted to tell you dance practice got canceled this afternoon, so I thought maybe I'd take you up on your dinner offer from last week?" 

 

Clarke turns and snatches her jacket off the back of the chair she was sitting on moments before. In a haze, she grabs the art books and supplies she'd brought and dumps them into her colorful satchel. 

 

"I've got to get back to class. Nice to meet you," she manages as evenly as she can before hurrying for the exit.

 

But she doesn't walk fast enough to miss Bellamy's "That would be great." 

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Bellamy Blake: Teacher workday tomorrow at Mecha. I don't have to go in. So neither do you.**

**Clarke Griffin: Fine.**

**Bellamy Blake: That's it?**

**Clarke Griffin: Were you expecting the fireworks effect?**

**Bellamy Blake: An apology would be great.**

**Clarke Griffin: For what?**

**Bellamy Blake: For running out of the art room like a nut case yesterday.**

**Clarke Griffin: I did NOT run. I also remember not being the one yelling.**

**Bellamy Blake: I didn't yell at you.**

**Clarke Griffin: You sure you're not the one who hit his head?**

**Bellamy Blake: Why do I even bother with you?**

**Clarke Griffin: You started it.**

**Bellamy Blake: Are you 5?**

**Clarke Griffin: You're supposed to be the older, more mature one.**

**Bellamy Blake: Whatever, Princess. Don't let the tiara slip.**

Clarke's staring down at her phone in her lap. It's not the first time she's reread their conversation. Each time makes her feel a little bit worse though. She should be paying attention to the pig insides Jasper is painstakingly labeling to her right. But the final bell's set to ring in five minutes and it's Friday, thank God. Freedom. 

When it does, she removes her goggles, snaps off her latex gloves, rinses her hands at the sink and then crashes back into her seat to throw her books, notebook and laptop into her bag haphazardly. 

"Where's the fire?" Jasper snorts. 

"I gotta get out of here today, Jas," she ruffles his hair affectionately. "Can you handle putting away the supplies?" 

"Yeah, yeah," he shakes his head at her with a smile. 

"Thanks, you're the best!" 

"What else is new?"

He has to stay after school anyway to work on his film studies class project. According to Octavia, who's also in the class with Monty and Harper, they're going to be burning the midnight oil because some of the shots need "ideal moonlight," whatever that means. Her friends have been super secretive about the topic of their art. All she knows is it's supposed to be a highly ambitious pilot episode of a TV show to get them comfortable with the medium, and they spend a lot of time traipsing through the woods. But hey... whatever gets you into college.

Clarke races out of her AP Bio classroom, the pungent smell of dissection still hanging in the air. If she's lucky, she'll make it to her car in time to not have to wait twenty minutes to escape the parking lot. Sophomores got parking on campus privileges this semester because Principal Sydney is sleeping with the father of one of the brazen punks. The whole situation has left her more than a little bitter. 

"Hey, Griffin! Slow down!" Wells comes jogging up to her waving a hand, a burgundy backpack slung casually across his shoulder. 

"Talk fast, Jaha. I can't get stuck in the parking lot again today." 

He smirks a little at that. 

"Exciting weekend plans you're racing off to?" he asks as they make their way into the sunshine. The freshly mowed grass smells nice, and the autumn blooms in the flowerbeds give Arkadia High a welcoming vibe. Way more simplistic than the freaking English gardens at Mecha Girls Academy, but ... nice.  _Maybe nicer, more homey_ she thinks with a purse of her lips. 

"Uhhh, not really. Mom wants to go to the spa for some 'girl time' Saturday, and I'm doing a few hours of service work at the free clinic on Sunday. Study session for my calc test Sunday night at the library ... riveting stuff." 

"So pretty much the usual." 

"Yeah," she throws him an easy smile but continues to power walk. "I guess. How about you?" 

"Dad's home this weekend, so we're going camping tomorrow at Walden Mountain."

"Oh, that's really nice!" Clarke chirps. Thelonius Jaha is a top political consultant to a lot of D.C. bigwigs, and he spends more of his time on the campaign trail than anywhere else. But with election season behind them, she's glad that he's taking some time to relax. Her parents used to go camping with the Jahas all the time. She swallows down the lump in her throat at the thought. 

"So come to dinner tonight! Mom's making prime rib, and I feel like we haven't hung out in a while, you know," he digs his hands into his pockets and shrugs, "just us." 

"Oh... uh... " They've arrived at Clarke's car, and she can see straight into her backseat where she left the art kit and textbook she inadvertently took from Bellamy's classroom Wednesday in her hurry to leave. Ever since she fled the scene of their fight, her mind keeps getting pulled back to the momentary softness around Bellamy's eyes when he'd put his hand on her thigh. Then how those eyes narrowed and darkened when she brought up graduate school. Until finally all she was left with was his easy smile for Roma, the fucking gorgeous teacher next door. "I'd love to, but I've got to go to Phoenix tonight. Can I take a raincheck?" 

She has no idea why that even came out of her mouth. Apparently, Wells doesn't either. He raises his eyebrows. 

"Why?" 

"Because I took home some art supplies from the school Bellamy's subbing at, and I have to bring them to him before he goes back Monday." 

It's the world's flimsiest excuse. All she can do is pray Wells doesn't ask too many questions. But her friend isn't in the top five percent of their class for nothing. 

"So give it to Octavia?" Wells' voice lilts upward at the end. He's watching her like she might be losing her mind. 

"Yeah I would, but she's off doing that film project, and I don't know where the hell they go and..." she knows she's stuttering along, "this is just easier." 

"I thought you didn't like Bellamy." 

"I don't." 

"But you're going out of your way to see him?" 

"It's not out of my way. It's ten minutes from my house," she snaps.

"And you think dropping off some art stuff is going to take all night, or--"

"Wells! I've got to go! The traffic!" she jerks her arm angrily in the direction of the building line of cars inching forward toward the main road, already forming a slowly moving snake of dark, dull colors. 

"Ok," Wells holds up both palms in supplication, backing away at her expression. "Raincheck." 

+

Abby's working the graveyard shift at the hospital, so Clarke's able to slip out of the house totally unnoticed. She actually doesn't think her mother would care about her going to grab dinner there. It's her outfit that might bring a few wrinkles to Abby's face. It's honesty mostly conservative - black leggings with a black mini skirt and suede grey ankle boots with a matching grey sweater. It's just that the sweater has a deep V neckline studded in small rhinestones, and anyone looking can see flashes of her black, lacy bra if she bends too far in any direction. 

She pulls into Mecha's parking lot at 7:30 p.m., taking a minute to adjust her makeup in the rearview mirror. Her lip gloss is that medium tone pink that you've got to maintain so it doesn't fade away to nothing. It's still quiet - way too early for the thumping bass beat that pours from the dance floor when the place transforms from a typical restaurant and bar to a club on the weekends. The good thing about Phoenix is it accepts anyone eighteen and older inside, but they do make anyone under twenty-one wear neon wristbands once the music's begun. 

"Hey, Griffin," Miller winks at her from his position by the front door as she approaches, art supplies in hand. "What's a pretty young girl like you doing  at a place like this?"  

She laughs, slightly breathless and motions down at her hands. "I've got to give these back to Bellamy, and I figured I'd grab a burger or something. My mom's working the graveyard shift at the hospital again." 

"Ah," Miller nods in understanding. She wonders suddenly how much he saw the night of Finn's party. But he's not giving her a weird vibe or anything. Which is good. Right. "Blake's inside working the bar," he nods his head backward. "It's filling up fast, but I'm sure he'll make room for you." 

Clarke tries to laugh again, but it comes out more like a gasp. She hurries through the door he holds open for her, mumbling a thanks and then blinking a few times to adjust to the low light of the bar. Miller was right - it is busier than usual. Just about every table's taken, and the bar's packed except for two free seats on the end. 

"Hi, welcome to Phoenix. Are you here to meet friends, or waiting for someone?" A young woman around her age with a striking, swirling facial tattoo smiles at her. 

"Uh, I was planning on ... eating at the bar," Clarke tells her. 

"Great, help yourself to a seat!" the brunette nods in the direction of the long, sleek wooden counter. 

Clarke settles into the hightop chair, thankful her leggings stop her skin from sticking to the shiny green material. A quick glance down the length of the bar tells her Bellamy's nowhere in sight, and she can't stop the sinking feeling from swooping into her stomach. 

"What can I get you, babe?" Anya, the other weekend bartender, says as she slides a water with a wedge of lime Clarke's way. 

"Thanks," Clarke fiddles with the straw, other hand resting unconsciously on the bag she brought for Bellamy. 

"I was actually wondering if..."

Anya nods, holding her finger up toward a man down the bar trying to get her attention for another drink. 

"Yeah?" she turns back to Clarke, who finds herself flushing. 

"Is Bellamy here?" she tries not to squeak. 

"Oh," Anya shoots her a knowing smile and leans forward, so she won't be overheard. "Clarke, you ok with a little unsolicited advice?”

Clarke frowns. “Sure?”

“Ok. Don’t take this the wrong way, but you're a smart girl about to graduate and go off to college. You've got the world by the balls. Blake's too old for you. It's not the right thing," she squints up her nose and shakes her head, already filling up Clarke's favorite, a Dr. Pepper. 

"That's not why I'm here!" Clarke says abruptly.  _Why the hell does everyone keep assuming it's romantic?_  "You know I'm best friends with Octavia." 

"Uh-huh," Anya slides her the soda. "But Octavia's not here." 

Clarke sighs, shoulders slumping. "I  _know_  that. She's doing her film project tonight. I meant I've been friends with the Blakes practically my whole life. I'm helping Bellamy out with this mural for a class he's teaching at Mecha, and I needed to give him these art supplies." She gestures to her right. 

Anya gives her a look that uncannily resembles the one Wells threw her a few hours earlier. Except this one slides over her sweater, too. 

"Anya! Stop looking at me like that!" she grumbles. "So is he here or not?" 

Anya doesn't answer, instead turning to make a Long Island iced tea for the man down the bar. When she returns, she looks at Clarke appraisingly. 

"That's all this is about, right? Just art supplies?" 

"Just art supplies," Clarke echoes blandly. 

"All right," Anya's french manicured nails click on the table. "I'll tell you what. Blake's in the back doing inventory with," she pauses, indecision clear on her face, "some chick, I don't know her. You know I don't ask questions. You can leave the stuff with me, and I'll make you up a cheeseburger with truffle fries and a fruit cup to go, how's that?" 

Clarke clutches the icy wetness of her cup harder before composing herself with the fluff of her hair and the thin-line smile at her mouth. 

"That's nice of you, but I'm not hungry," she barely blinks, grabbing at the package. "I can give it to him myself." She unzips her wallet and throws some money down for the soda she barely drank. 

"Clarke!" Anya calls after her as she jumps off her seat, but she doesn't pause. And then someone else is asking for a drink, the radio shifts on, and all she can hear is her heartbeat in her ears as she moves down the narrow hallway covered in movie posters toward the supply room.

The door's closed, covered in rock band stickers, and she pounds on it with the side of her fist. She's out of her mind - that much is obvious. She has no right to be here, no real reason, either. 

"What you want, Miller?" comes Bellamy's gruff voice. 

Clarke turns the knob and it gives, so she lets it swing away from her and steps into the room. Roma's mid-giggle sitting on top of a few stacked crates, fingers playing with Bellamy's hair where he stands between her thighs, one hand under her skirt and his mouth at her neck. 

"I'm not Miller," Clarke snaps, dropping the bag at her feet with a clang. 

Bellamy jumps back from Roma, turning around with wide eyes as the English teacher flattens down her skirt and pulls her sweater hastily up where it was slipping down her shoulder. 

"Shit, Clarke," he curses. "What the hell are you doing back here? 

"I took this stuff from the art room accidentally Wednesday. I was coming here to pick up dinner anyway, so I thought I'd drop it off," she stares him down, though her tone's a bit dead. "Looks like I caught you at a bad time. But..." she pretends to look thoughtful, tapping her pointer finger to her chin, "I thought you didn't want to look like a jackass where you worked. I guess we just have different interpretations of what that means." 

"Clarke--hold on a second--"

But she's already spinning back around, and pulling the door closed as she slips around it, yelling, "You might want to lock this next time!" as she goes. 

She's halfway back down the long hall, eyes firmly fixed on the bright red-and-white exit sign and brain recycling the same mantra  _have to get out of here, have to get out of here, have to get out of here_ when something warm closes around her wrist. She almost shrieks, but then Bellamy's freckles swim in her vision, and his big hands are floating hesitantly over her shoulders, barely resting on them. 

"Clarke, stop a second." 

"What for? I brought you the stuff. Anya's got my food waiting - I've got to get home." 

The puff of air from his nose tickles her cheek as he sighs, stepping back from her. She misses his hands.  _Jesus, she's in too deep._

"Look," Bellamy runs a hand through his hair then rubs at the back of his neck. His nervous tell. "I'm sorry I snapped at you the other day. I've just got a lot going on, and I'm stressed out I guess."

He offers a small smile, but it's one she doesn't return.

"You don't seem that stressed out to me." 

A dark thundercloud comes to rest over his features. 

"Why are you being so stupid about this?" he demands, voice going up again. 

Her hands find her hips, and she stares right back up at him. Their height difference isn't as big in her heeled boots. 

"I'm being stupid?!" she demands, poking him in the chest with a finger. He doesn't even move, a solid wall of muscle. "You're the one who's throwing away all your education and passion so you can ... what? Bartend? Lay bricks? You're  _better_  than that, Bellamy!" 

She's willing her voice not to shake. He can't know what she just saw affected her. Not to mention she can't even imagine the implications to her deep-seated relationship with the Blakes. It would wreck everything, her safe harbor. 

"There's nothing wrong with honest work, Princess," he grits. "I'm doing what I want to do, and I'd appreciate it if you didn't butt in, all right? I didn't ask for your opinion. I never wanted it. Nothing is ever good enough for you anyway." 

Maybe he doesn't mean for it to come out so cutting, but it does. Clarke pushes him back for real this time, hard and unapologetic. "My mistake," she spits. "I just thought I was encouraging you to  _make_  something of your life. But what the hell do I know?" 

She tears off again, heels clicking and ankle slightly throbbing at the speed. He calls her name once, but she ignores it, throwing her middle finger up in the air in response. She's already around the corner by the time Bellamy smashes his fist into the wall in frustration before walking slowly back to where he left Roma. 


	8. Chapter 8

By the time Bellamy gets home, it's a quarter after two in the morning. He's dragging his feet, bone tired as he stares into his mirror and briefly considers shaving off the stubble gathering on his jaw line. Deciding against it, he reaches for his tube of toothpaste and freezes. There's a thin, sparkling purple hair tie right next to it. The argument with Clarke and subsequent awkwardness with Roma seems to rip back up his spinal cord and lodge in his brain. 

  

 

_"Is, uh, everything ok?" Roma asked when he walked back into the storage room to find her still seated on top of the stack of crates._

_"Yeah," he tried to brush it off. "She's gone now."_

_Roma frowned, her face clearly demonstrating that she thought what had just gone down was very weird._

_"She seemed pretty upset."_

_He gave a one-shouldered shrug, trying to appear blasé.  The last thing he needed to do was try to quantify what the fuck had just happened for Roma._

_"I gave her a hard time before she helped me with the painting class about keeping everything professional at work and not making me look stupid in front of the girls," he admitted. "So, I guess, this--" he gestured between them--_

_"Didn't look so professional?" Roma cocked her head to the side and smiled at him, kicking her heel into the side of the crate._

_"Right," Bellamy offered a small smirk of his own, stepping back to her._

_Smoothing her skirt for something to do with the nervous energy pulsing through him, he laid his hands heavy on her thighs._

_"Listen, I've got to get back to the bar or Anya will start bitching. But dinner was great. I had fun."_

_"Me too," Roma replied, catching his chin between her thumb and middle finger and tilting his mouth up to hers to kiss. "My sister's coming in from out of town to visit this weekend, so maybe," she raised an eyebrow at him, "we can do this again another time?"_

_"Yeah," Bellamy said after a pause. "We definitely should." He nodded at her, stepping back to give her space to drop down to her feet._

_He held the door open for her, but she stopped right before going through, turning to run a light hand down his chest. "You know ... if there's someone else, it's ... uh, ok."_

_"What?" Bellamy blinked, before what she was implying caught up with him. "Oh, God no. Roma, no. I literally watched her get chicken pox. She just had some guy troubles recently, so I think she's kinda on edge or whatever. The guy was a douche though."_

_Roma nodded along as he spoke._

_"He acted like he was really into her, but turns out he was cheating on his long-distance girlfriend."_

_Roma winced. "Ah, young love."_

_Bellamy chuckled._

_"Yeah."_

_"So... we're good?" she asked hopefully._

_His gut twisted just a fraction as he smiled back. "We're great. I'll see you Monday."_

_Anya was waiting for him with a dishrag and a mop when he got back. "The party started early for that bachelorette group in the corner," she grinned crazily at him. "I saved the vomit cleanup duty for you, Romeo."_

_"Jesus,"  he muttered under his breath, accepting the mop._

_"For the record, Blake," Anya tapped her long nails into his forearm briefly. "She's a good kid. And she's in high school," she said the last two words emphatically. "So whatever you're doing ... don't."_

_Bellamy stared straight into her kohl-rimmed eyes. "I'm not," he hissed._

_+_

 

His mother had told him it was stupid to get involved with anyone at work when he was applying for his first summer job as a lifeguard in high school. "Always remember, baby, you don't get your honey where you make your money," she said. While he'd brushed her off at the time and dedicated himself to figuring out exactly how the G-spot functioned with Gina on the squishy couch in Arkadia Country Club's pool house, well ... the words make more sense now. 

 

Sighing, he punches his pillow a few times and tries to quiet his mind. But it's the throaty voice of Clarke that haunts him no matter how he tries to distract himself. " _I  just thought I was encouraging you to make something of your life!'_

_+_

It's probably a stupid idea, but he blames his lack of coffee for telling Octavia what happened the following morning as she buzzes around the living room, throwing the workout gear she leaves lying around into a bag. He's trying to cook breakfast and drown out her rambling about how Clarke wouldn't return any of her texts last night, but he nearly lets the waffle batter burn in the process. 

 

"I mean, I know she's stressed about her college apps, but we  _all_  are, you know? She's a freaking genius, so she's gonna get in everywhere. Meanwhile, I'm the one tramping through the forest like little fucking red riding hood because Monty thinks he's Steven Spielberg and--"

 

 

 

 

"It's my fault," Bellamy finally says, breaking down and pulling the bag of Starbucks blend from the high pantry shelf. 

 

"Huh?" Octavia asks. She slides into her seat at the table and begins loading up the plate he puts in front of her with berries and maple syrup. "How's Clarke ghosting on me your fault?"

 

"We got into a fight last night." 

 

Octavia groans, throwing her head back and letting her fork clatter to the plate. "Not again. You two are hopeless. What happened?" 

 

"It's not a big deal," he tries to blow her off and start preparing his coffee so he can avoid her more effectively, but she's relentless. 

 

In the end, he figures Clarke will tell her anyway, and she should at least hear his - more rational - side of the story instead of spending the next week icing him out for being the asshole Clarke will make him out to be. The longer he talks, the farther Octavia's eyes narrow until they look positively feline, though she keeps shoveling forkfuls of waffles into her mouth. He’s not sure how she manages it.

 

"So then she stomped off like a lunatic," he finishes. "Making me look like an idiot in front of not only Roma but Anya too!" 

 

"Oh, Bell," Octavia flops her head back against the wall and sprawls her legs out in front of her, shaking her head. "You two just suck at communicating." 

 

"I don't need to communicate with her." 

 

"Then why did you ask for her help with the mural?" Octavia starts to grin. 

 

"Because she's the only goddamn person I know who's good at art," he runs an angry hand through his hair before opening the coffee pot a little too violently. 

 

"Well she was nice enough to say yes." 

 

"Don't kid yourself, O. She just wants to add another shining line of community service to her applications." 

 

"Mmmhmmm," Octavia mumbles through a mouthful of food. It's a Herculean effort for her to swallow. "It has nothing to do with helping out a friend at all." 

 

"I'm not her friend," Bellamy returns immediately. 

 

Octavia laughs out loud. 

 

"Please, do you think she'd be on your ass all the time about getting out of construction and becoming a teacher if she didn't give a shit about you?" 

 

Bellamy scoffs. 

 

"That's just her projecting her own Type A bullshit onto everyone around her. It's obnoxious." 

 

Octavia begins lacing up her shoes, pulling so tight he wants to wince on behalf of her feet. "If it's so obnoxious, then why did you drive her to the hospital after the Finn Fiasco and make she she was taken care of when she got hurt?" 

 

"Because you weren't strong enough to pick her up." 

 

She waves him off with a hand. 

 

"Don't be a dick. All I'm saying is it's ok to feel protective toward her. I get it, Bell. She's my best friend. You've known her a long time. So it'd be fine if you just admit she's your friend, too. Any day now," she gestures toward the microwave clock and then, when she realizes the time, groans, "If I'm late again, Lincoln's gonna kill me!" 

 

Bellamy finds it's easier to lean against the counter, so his sister can slide by in her mad dash and dump her plate and utensils into the dishwasher. Honestly, he can't form the right words to make the difference at the moment anyway. But he feels like he has to defend himself somehow. 

 

"I ... that's not... we're not..." 

 

"Kickboxing class, Bell. Gotta catch the bus!" She smacks a kiss to his cheek before hitting him on the back of his head with the flat of his palm. 

 

"What the fuck was that for?" he growls. 

 

"She's my best friend!" she yells from the hall. "Fix it! I don't want her avoiding me because of you!" 

 

Gripping one fist around the coffee pot, Bellamy pours the rich, brown liquid into his favorite mug - it's a map of constellations - and stares out the window, willing himself to try to relax. It's just Clarke, after all. She'll come around. 

 

+

 

Sunday dawns bright and sunny. The sky's the kind of crisp blue you want to capture and stick in a snow globe.  It's warmer than usual for fall, with the temperature that day scraping seventy-five, and the low only around sixty-two. Bellamy spends the early part of it at the gym because it's rare he's got free time not dedicated to studying economic theory, laying a house's framework or avoiding the wandering gazes of soccer moms at the grocery store. The afternoon's lost and morphs into the lengthening shadows of night while he watches football and drinks cheap beer with Miller and his roommate, Murphy, in their basement. All in all, a very successful day. So when his phone buzzes around eight, he ignores it, wanting to stay in the peaceful bubble of freedom a little longer, and leans toward the oily pizza box to grab another slice. 

 

But then it buzzes again - four texts in five minutes, and Murphy asks, "Dude? Are you gonna answer them or what?" 

 

**Octavia Blake: Study session done around 9. You picking me up, or am I taking the bus?**

**Octavia Blake: Hello? Bell?**

**Octavia Blake: ISTG if you're drunk at Miller's**

**Octavia Blake: Ok well when the cops find a beautiful brunette in a ditch tomorrow, you'll know why.**

**Octavia Blake: You'll have no one to blame but yourself.**

**Bellamy Blake: Stop being a drama queen. I'm on my way.**

Unfortunately, the library's on the other side of town, and it takes him almost a half hour to get there. You'd think Octavia would be ready to go at this point, but no, he can see her clearly through one of the front windows tinged golden, laughing at something Jasper is saying to her as he walks up the sidewalk. Her stuff's strewn out all over the table in front of her as he walks across the carpet. There's assorted blue Rice Crispy Treat, bright orange Reese's and silver Pop Tart wrappers he can spot at a distance. With a deep sigh of annoyance - his sister, his responsibility - he calls out to her. 

 

"Time to go, O! Pack it up." 

 

"Thanks for coming, big brother," she smiles at him angelically as she lazily balls up a wrapper and throws it into a nearby trash can. "You saved me a bus ride. Say hi to Jasper." 

 

"How's it going, Jas?" He lifts his chin in acknowledgement, and Jasper beams at him like a puppy. 

 

"Good man! Gonna nail the calc test tomorrow, thanks to your sister." 

 

"Really?" Bellamy raises a skeptical eyebrow. "Since when are you good at math?" 

 

"Since--" Octavia seems about ready to speak but the sound dies in her throat all of a sudden. 

 

He's about to press the issue when an all-too-familar voice connected to a very blonde head comes bouncing around the corner. 

 

"Let's go, Octavia! I'm driving you home, right?" 

 

His body stiffens, and he shoots his sister a look of pure annoyance before turning to face her slowly.

 

"Ooops. I must've forgotten," Octavia shrugs helplessly before beginning to pack up her notes.

 

Clarke's wearing a pale blue cap-sleeved, cotton dress embroidered with tiny pink flowers. It hits just above the knee and reminds him too much of spring. Her hair's loose and flowing, the florescent lights of the library hitting it just right so that for a moment, she almost appears angelic. But. No. She's definitely from hell, not heaven, at least as far as he's concerned.  

 

"Princess," he grits by way of acknowledgement, jaw clenched tight. 

 

Clarke makes no noise except for a grunt, crossing her arms over her chest and leaning back into a well-stocked bookshelf. She doesn't even look at him from what he can tell.  

 

"So you don't need a ride, then?" Clarke levels her gaze on his sister. 

 

"Uh, no, think I'm good. Thanks anyway," Octavia returns, easing her backpack onto her shoulder. "Catch you later, Jasper." 

 

"Bye," he gives her a goofy grin and slouches away in the direction of the front desk. 

 

Bellamy barely represses rolling his eyes. He reaches for Octavia's arm, about to guide her toward the door, when a floppy-haired guy appears between two bookshelves, stepping into the study space. 

 

"Clarke, I wasn't done talking to you!" he says loudly. 

 

Bellamy glances up immediately, sizing up the intruder. It doesn't take him long to put it together. He takes an unconscious step in her direction, but she's already speaking, her words cracking like a whip. 

 

"We weren't talking, Finn. I was passing by your table, and you were speaking words into the void." 

 

He falters for a moment before pressing on anyway. 

 

"What am I supposed to do? You won't even look at me in school," he steps closer to her, and she presses back into the bookshelf. "You won't answer my texts."

 

"She doesn't read them," Octavia mutters into his ear. 

 

"And I just want to explain about Raven. She-"

 

"There's nothing to explain!" Clarke retorts angrily. "I don't want to hear it. It doesn't matter! It's not my business. Just stay away from me, all right?" 

 

She takes off at that, power walking to the exit, keys jingling in her hand. Finn stands dumbly for a moment, staring at her back, but then he springs into motion like a wooden soldier brought to life. "Clarke!" he calls, hurrying after her. 

 

"Oh God, here we go again!" Octavia says. 

 

But Bellamy's not really paying attention to his sister now. His vision is narrowing to the place where Clarke is slipping through the metal detectors, Finn only ten yards behind. He's moving before he can think much about it, crossing the front of the library and pushing the white door open aggressively. The sweet night air hits him in the face. He glances left and then right, catching a flash of blonde hair in the distance near a weeping willow. 

 

"But, Clarke," Finn sounds more desperate as he approaches, an edge to his tone. "I don't care about her like that. Yeah, we grew up together, but when I met you-"

 

"I told you to leave me alone!" Clarke's voice raises. She's mad, but he can hear the wobble in it, the slight shrill of hysteria. 

 

"Back up," Bellamy growls, stepping through the tree's rustling branches like they're a dry waterfall. "Right now." 

 

Finn stares him down, eyes narrowing. "Who the hell are you, anyway, her keeper? We're just having a conversation." 

 

"She doesn't want to talk to you," he says darkly. His muscles feel tight, ready to pummel the stupid kid in the face. "You're the reason she had to go to the hospital." 

 

"Bellamy, stop it," Clarke's blue eyes snap to his for the first time. "Just go home. I've got this." 

 

He swallows hard, works at it. 

 

"You don't." 

 

"Listen, Clarke," Finn turns back to her, "I know I was an ass, but I'm sorry. I just didn't know how to handle the situation. I really do like you. I'm gonna tell Raven it's over--" 

 

"I'm not interested, Finn." 

 

She steps around him, moving past the rough bark of the tree trunk in the direction of the parking lot. But Finn's quick, catching her by the hand and bringing her back against the tree with the soft thump of her back that has Bellamy seeing red. 

 

"Come on, babe," his fingers skim up her cheek. "Let's just go somewhere we can talk for a few minutes." 

 

He's yanking Finn back by the shoulder and pushing him hard enough to knock him downhill toward the pond before he knows what's happening. "Stay the fuck away from her!" He moves in front of Clarke, a human shield.

 

"Bellamy, don't!" Clarke and Octavia shout at the same time.  

 

Finn's face contorts in disgust. He rises slowly, brushing dirt from his clothes. 

 

"I don't know who you think you are," Finn hisses, "But you're getting into something you should stay out of. This is between me and Clarke!" 

 

"She doesn't want to talk to you," Bellamy's breathing is too labored. 

 

"Oh you think she wants to talk to you instead?" Finn taunts, drawing closer. "What's the matter? Can't get laid in college, so you hang out at high school parties instead and take advantage of--"

 

His fist makes direct contact with Finn's eye, a sharp crack and then a blooming, dark flower begins to emerge against his pale skin. 

 

Finn howls, rearing forward, but Octavia leaps into the grass before Bellamy, tiny can of pepper spray in her fist, waving it at eye level.

 

"Don't even think about it, buddy," she snarls. 

 

Baring his teeth, Finn calls "This isn't over, asshole!" as he stalks away, no doubt toward a very expensive sports car he earned himself through hard work and dedication.

 

His attention careens back to Clarke, whose fists are gripping the sides of her dress. She stares at him in shock.  

 

"What the hell was that, Bellamy? You could've really hurt him!" 

 

"Wait,  _what_?" He rounds on her. "Are you serious? He was pushing you up against a tree! Harassing you when you told him repeatedly to fuck off!" 

 

"I was handling it!" Her eyes blaze as they stare up into his.  He didn't realize how close he'd gotten to her. "I didn't need your help. I didn't ask for it." 

 

"Yes you fucking did," he snaps back. "What am I supposed to do? Let some scumbag manhandle you because he wears a designer watch." 

 

"I had it under control," she enunciates every syllable. 

 

"Jasper!" he hears Octavia call behind him. "Can I get a ride home?" 

 

"Uh, yeah, sure!" comes the upbeat reply. "Everything ok?" They're still far enough apart they're half-shouting at each other. "Everything's fine. Just letting Bellamy and Clarke work through something." They both turn in time to see her practically  _skip_ through the landscaping and back to the well-lit sidewalk where Jasper stands waiting for her, smiling. She blows them a kiss and calls, "Make good choices!" before disappearing into the night. 

 

_When he gets home, he's going to fucking kill his sister._

"You didn't have it under control," Bellamy wills his voice calm. His chest tightens when he sees her bite her lip. "I hate to break this to you, Clarke, but you're petite. You could be easily overpowered. You already ended up in the hospital once because that prick--"

"Oh give it a rest with your patriarchal bullshit," she says hotly. 

"Sorry," Bellamy grits his teeth together and blows out air. "Not tonight. I'm driving you home." 

"I brought my own car, Bellamy," she says like he's got the comprehension of a three-year-old.

"You're not going into that parking lot tonight. You can get it tomorrow." 

"That's crazy. I'm  _fine_." 

"Let's go," he puts a firm but gentle hand to her lower back and starts walking back up the hill. 

In the friendly light of his jeep, he reaches gingerly for her arm, turning it over. She stiffens but doesn't pull away from his hands. The skin's mostly unblemished, no bruises, and just a few cuts and scrapes from where she smacked into the tree bark. 

"He's no good for you," he says it softly but steadily, not looking away until she meets his eyes. 

"I know," she returns before staring resolutely out the window. 

Bellamy puts the car into drive and hits the gas, directing them down the winding country road that eventually meets the highway and will lead back to Clarke's house. Overhead, the moon is heavy and yellow, the sky dotted with stars. He keeps the heat on low and the soft rock station barely above a whisper. He just can't take the silence with her - not this kind. He hates it. Many minutes pass before he realizes her left leg keeps jittering in place. He slides his hand out to still it, realizes too late that he's touching her bare thigh just as he turns down her street, rubbing small circles into her skin. 

" _Bellamy,"_ she stares up at him in surprise, mouth a perfectly parted O. 

_Shit. What the fuck is he doing?_ He just wanted her to calm down, to be easier, to breathe and know she was ok now. She was with him now. And instead she's going to think he's worse than Finn. Still, he's mesmerized by the softness of her leg, like delicate whipped cream. He needs to pull his hand away because Clarke's still staring at him, and he's staring right back, frozen. 

Then by some bizarre twist of the universe, Clarke catches his hand with her own, just like she did on the dance floor, sliding her fingers between the gaps of his. She parts her legs infinitesimally, sliding his fingers a few centimeters into the curve of her thigh, still looking right at him with a heart-shaped face that could have been sculpted from marble.  

Just as she squeezes his fingers kindly with her own, a car alarm blares halfway down the block, and she knocks backward, breaking the spell. 

"I-I've got to go," she jumps out of the jeep so fast she's a blur, yanking her bag with her and slamming the door. 

He doesn't know what happened. He has absolutely no goddamn idea what just happened. 


	9. Chapter 9

Abby is waiting for her at the foot of the stairs the next morning when Clarke clomps her way down to the ground level. She spares a glance at the impressive, ten-foot tall stain glass mosaic of roses scattered amongst creeping vines as she moves past it. She's cranky, having spent most of the night tossing and turning and dreading school. Plus, she needs caffeine flowing through her veins. 

 

 

"Morning, sunshine," Abby smiles at her, but it doesn't reach her eyes. "Anything you'd like to share with me?" 

 

 

 

"About what?" Clarke dodges around her, making a beeline for the kitchen's coffee pot. As she waits for it to warm up, she tosses an apple into her backpack and begins ransacking the pantry in search of some sort of breakfast bar.

 

"About last night!" Abby snaps, chasing after her.

 

"Hmm? What about about it? I studied with Octavia and Jasper." 

 

She's running late and needs to meet with Mrs. Kane before the first bell to work out an assignment schedule since she'll be missing part of her studio art class for the foreseeable future. Reaching for a cardboard box on a high shelf, her fingers clamp around it tight when Bellamy's expression from last night suddenly springs to mind. She's not sure how she's going to be able to face him again after what she did. What she implied In his jeep. It makes her cheeks burn. Maybe there's a way to get out of helping him altogether - though she'd feel like a shitty person if she left him high and dry. But he's got to feel as uncomfortable as she does, right? He may welcome the excuse to be rid of her. 

 

"Then why didn't you drive yourself home?" Abby demands. 

 

"Where's your car?" 

 

"Oh, uh," Clarke turns to her mother guiltily. "Bellamy took me home." 

 

Abby's fists find her bony hips. The look she gives her daughter is one of anger tinged with disappointment. 

 

"After he gave Finn Collins a black eye?" 

 

"How--how did you know that? She stares at Abby in disbelief, hands mindlessly taking out a plastic-wrapped bar and returning the box to its rightful place. 

 

"Thomas Collins was hired as the head of hospital administration a few months ago," Abby starts. "He's my coworker. I see him sometimes in the cafeteria or at meetings. So you can imagine my surprise when he called this morning to let me know you'd gone home with the boy who punched his son!"

 

Clarke's eyes narrow. 

 

"Glad to hear I'm being spied on!"

 

Abby rolls her eyes dismissively. 

 

"Clarke! Why didn't you tell me? What happened?" 

 

"It's nothing," Clarke moves past her to grab a coffee mug. 

 

"It's not nothing, young lady! Start talking or you won't be driving anywhere for a month." 

 

Clarke sighs deeply, clutching at the handle of the pastel mug. "Finn just ... wanted to talk to me last night at the library, and I didn't want to. Bellamy showed up to get Octavia, and he ... got involved." 

 

Abby watches her carefully, pushing back a strand of wavy, honey-brown hair over her shoulder. 

 

"I don't like that he was violent, Clarke." 

 

Secretly, Clarke's torn between wanting to yell at him some more for overreacting like he did and wanting to throw her arms around him for giving enough of a damn to intervene. It's complicated. 

 

"Do you think I do?" 

 

"Why did he feel the need to protect you like that?" Abby asks, voice warming up a fraction as she steps closer to her daughter. "Was Finn threatening you? Did he hurt you? I thought you two were friends." 

 

"We were friends," is all Clarke says. 

 

Abby tilts her head to the side questioningly. But all Clarke does in response is take a quick sip of too-hot coffee and burn her tongue. 

 

"Was he jealous?" 

 

"No," Clarke spits immediately. "Listen, I've got to go. I've got to catch the bus and meet Mrs. Kane. I'll get a ride to pick up my car after school. We'll talk later, ok?" 

 

She grabs her backpack and coat and heads for the door. 

"Hold on!" Abby yells behind her, chasing her down until she has a grip on her arm to spin her around. Clarke avoids her gaze. "If Finn did anything to make you uncomfortable, I need to know, Clarke. That isn't right, and it's not going to continue."

 

Clarke schools her expression into one of detached calm. 

"It's fine," her eyes widen slightly to push the point home. "I promise Bellamy handled it." 

_Yeah, the only problem is he doesn't go to your school_ , she thinks ruefully.  _Not like I could show my face in front of him anyway_. Her stomach twists as she wonders what will happen at 1 p.m. 

 

+

 

But the thing is, Finn totally avoids her in calculus class, not even sparing a glance in her direction. She spends the whole morning walking on eggshells through the hallways waiting for a confrontation that never comes. By the time she's knocking timidly on Bellamy's classroom door, she's full of pent up nerves, foot tapping an unsteady rhythm on the tile below. It takes a few seconds, but then she hears Bellamy's footsteps approach. When he opens the door, he smiles a little uncertainly at her, biting his lip. The rich blue of his shirt sets off his skin tone nicely. He's got the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, probably to avoid excess paint splatter. A current of fizzling energy passes between them in the span of a moment. 

 

"Well, can I come in?" Clarke asks. 

 

"Yeah, sure," he shakes his head and steps back to allow her inside. "I wasn't sure you were gonna come back." He returns to his desk, still tracking her movements as she shrugs off her coat and hangs it on the rack. It makes her feel like  a watched kangaroo at the zoo.

 

"Do you want me to go?" It comes out so much more hurt than she wanted it to. 

 

"'Course not, Princess. Who else is gonna tell me everything 

I'm doing wrong every five minutes?" One side of his mouth quirks up. She sighs out a breath of relief she didn't realize she was holding. He doesn't hate her or think she's disgusting. 

 

Part of her wants to say something about Finn. The other part wants to push it away so far that it sinks to the bottom of the ocean and floats along the sea bottom with the algae. Instead, she stands there mutely like an airhead, fingers playing with the crusty tops of the paint brushes perched by the sink. 

 

Bellamy clears his throat. 

 

"You know you don't have to come, right? I know it's a lot with everything you've got going on." 

 

There's that twist to the gut again. 

 

"I committed to helping you. I'm not going to back out of that."

She can't be sure, but she thinks she sees something like pride spark in his eyes briefly. 

 

"I'll just paint more on the weekends to keep up with my studio class. It's not that big of a deal, and Mrs. Kane said she's ok with me being here Mondays and Fridays since it's like a community service project and such a big project." 

 

"Translation - it'll look good on your resume." 

 

She frowns. 

 

"Yeah, Blake. You know it's all about maintaining my privilege." 

 

"Wouldn't expect anything less, Princess." 

 

He throws her a simple look that somehow makes her feel naked and seen. She tries not to waver under it. Bellamy's lip twitches like he's suppressing a smirk. But a moment later, the girls push through the door, and they're distracted by the stories of high drama and intrigue only fourteen-year-olds can tell. 

 

Clarke's hand is lost in mixing colors to create the perfect brown for the Grand Canyon, her mind a pleasant hum of absolute nothingness. The solid grasp of her shoulder makes her jump, paintbrush swishing through the air and landing right against Bellamy's jaw. 

 

"Oh, shit! I'm sorry!" she gasps, leaping to her feet and  rushing to the sink for paper towels to wet down. "I just get in the zone sometimes and lose track of what's going on around me." 

 

"Clarke, the girls all left five minutes ago. Class is over," Bellamy says, still surprised as his fingers swipe at the glossy streak of paint streaking over his skin like a kite ribbon. 

 

She flushes as she approaches him. 

 

"Here, it'll wipe right off." Clarke catches the unblemished side of his face without thought, raising up on her tiptoes and bringing the damp paper towel mixed with a tiny drop of hand soap to his face. He's warmer than she expected. His eyes darken, and he goes perfectly still as she strokes carefully, wiping the mess away.  

 

Bellamy clears his throat gruffly after a moment. Clarke lets her hands drop as she wipes away the last speck of paint. She forces herself to take measured steps away from him. 

 

The tension around them is so thick that she can't bear it any longer. 

 

"Finn's dad works with my mom," she says. "He told her what happened last night." 

 

Bellamy grunts. 

 

"That sounds about right." 

 

"What the hell does that mean?" 

 

He shrugs, leaning against the front of his desk. "I would've guessed they played tennis together at Arkadia Country Club." 

 

She hisses out a breath.

 

"That's cute. The point is now my mom's pissed you hit him. I don't need more drama in my life because a switch flipped in your brain." 

 

"You do perfectly fine creating your own drama. You don't need my help." 

 

"Why are you being such an ass?" 

 

He laughs, a hollow chuckle that turns her blood colder. When he stands he makes their height difference plain, towering over her by invading her personal space. 

 

"He  _sent you to the hospital_ , Clarke! Then I see him harassing you in the library and following you into some dark corner to do God know's what! What did you expect me to do?" 

 

His anger washes over her in slowly crashing waves.  _Nothing? Something? Everything? She has no fucking idea what she expected of him._

 

"I expected you to listen to what I was asking you to do! I can take care of myself you know!" she volleys back. 

 

"Yeah, you've been doing a great job of that lately." 

 

"I tripped at his house, ok?" she snaps. "It's not like he pushed me."  

 

He takes one more step closer, so she can practically feel his heartbeat through his shirt. His hands grasp either side of the table behind her, boxing her in. 

 

"Something's off about that kid, Clarke. I. Don't. Want. Him. Touching. You," he growls. 

 

Clarke's head's spinning with so many thoughts and emotions that none of them stick. She's paralyzed by his cologne and the fierceness of his eyes. Her breathing is shallow and shaky. Maybe that's why it comes out like it does. 

 

"Well that's not what I wanted either! But I also didn't need you to jump into hero mode and try to save the day! I'm a big girl, Bellamy." 

 

He stills instantly, taking a few sizable steps back from her, breathing harshly through his nose. He's throughly uncomfortable - she knows it. If he runs his hand through his hair one more time, it's going to stand on end. Clarke hears the tick of the plain black-and-white clock hung over the smart board. Her body's on fire with shame. She actually  _opened her legs_ to his touch the night before. Bellamy. Her best friend's older brother. Who drove her and Octavia to Wendy's after soccer practice when they were in middle school. She did it unprompted--without alcohol. Only because he'd expressed concern that her would-be boyfriend was abusive--and let's be honest, Finn showed tendencies of being just that. He pushed her into a tree, for God's sake.  _Of course_  Bellamy would be concerned. Anybody who gave a damn about her at all would be concerned. 

 

She and Bellamy make snide comments to each other. That's just their thing. It wasn't anything to read into more than that. Some would call it banter. Others would call it obnoxious. But grinding into his crotch in public? Asking him to cuddle her during a scary show? Stomping into the stock room at Phoenix just to yell at him because he was on a date with Roma - who he was well within his rights to date? She's amazed he's still even talking to her. 

 

"I'm - I'm sorry. I meant ... that ... whole situation ... shouldn't have to be your problem," she mumbles, grabbing her bag off an empty chair. She doesn't need a mirror to know the blush is crawling up her neck. "I'm sorry I got you involved in it." Then she's hurrying, once more, for the door. It's deja vu.  

 

"Clarke, wait!" 

 

Bellamy reaches the door a split second before her, wedging himself into the gap by the handle, so she can't turn it. She almost skids straight into his chest. 

 

"Please get out of my way," her tone's flat-out pleading. She doesn't think she's ever been this embarrassed in her life. 

 

"Dammit, Clarke!" he complains, chest rising and falling fast. He steadies his breathing before meeting her eyes. She's shocked by how honest they appear. "You have to know I'm always going to try to protect you."  

 

She shuffles her feet awkwardly, swallowing a lump in her throat. "Yeah, I know. Big brother instinct and all that. I get it, I'm like your other little sister who keeps fucking up." 

 

Confusion mars his features for a moment. She can't bear to look longer than that. But then he's stepping forward, one hot palm landing on her forearm where goosebumps rise. Clarke chances a glance at his face where he appears to be at war with himself. "I just," he sighs at last as they stand there, suspended in time. "I need you to take good care of yourself, ok?" 

 

Her heart drops into her stomach with a sound swoop. 

 

"Yeah, sure," Clarke replies, pushing around him to reach the door handle. "Whatever the hell you want." 

 

+ 

 

They barely speak the next time they share the art studio space for class four days later. Nothing beyond "Hi," "Can you pass me the charcoals?" and "Have a good weekend" is actually said. If the girls notice anything strange, for once they don't comment on it.  

 

On Sunday morning, Wells and Clarke drive over to the Blake's to pick up Octavia to volunteer at the local soup kitchen for a National Honor Society project. Clarke's heart is hammering in her rib cage as she knocks on their door. When nobody answers, she reaches for the key in her bag and unlocks it, stepping over the threshold and into the living room. 

 

"Anyone home?" she calls. "It's Clarke." 

 

It's quiet though, so maybe Bellamy's working at the construction site. Last she heard, the crew was putting up luxury apartments off Polis Parkway. Wells keeps giving her a weird side eye, but fortunately, he never calls her out on the nervous tapping pattern her fingertips are making on the inside crook of her elbow. 

 

"Octavia!" Clarke yells as Wells flings himself unceremoniously onto the couch, flicking on the TV. "We're already running late! You don't have to look glamorous to feed the homeless." 

 

"Couldn't agree with you more, Princess." 

 

A door creaks open off the hallway, and her blood thickens right then and there in her veins. Out steps Bellamy, wearing grey sweatpants low on his hips and throughly tousled hair. "In fact, I think the whole neighborhood might agree with you." 

 

"I didn't know you were home," she manages. 

 

From the corner of her eye, she notices Wells' head turning between them curiously.

 

"Yet here I am," Bellamy replies, smiling suddenly when a thin blonde girl pops out of the darkness and nestles herself into the crook of his arm, giggling up at him. "Here we both are. Bree, this is Clarke and Wells, my sister's friends."

 

"Hi," Bree offers, before starting to press loud kisses to Bellamy's shoulder. Wells' eyes momentarily widen. 

 

"What's up, Wells?" Bellamy nods nonchalantly at her friend. "Feel free to help yourself to anything in the fridge while you wait for O." 

 

"Hey, man. Uh--" Wells shoots a hesitant glance at Clarke as he gets quickly to his feet. "Thanks. We'll ... be out of your hair in a minute." 

 

"No rush," Bellamy shrugs, eyes meeting Clarke's with a small glint in them. 

 

"Come back to bed, baby," the blonde tugs at Bellamy's hand, her laughter high-pitched. "I wasn't finished with you." 

 

Bellamy smirks. "I wasn't done with you either." 

 

Clarke thinks she might be choking on air but covers it with a cough at the last possible second. 

 

"Have fun  _volunteering,"_ he says as the door closes with a sharp snap.  

 

Clarke has exactly four seconds to compose herself before Octavia's bursting down the stairs, a one-woman stampede. 

 

"Are you bitches ready to go or not?" she asks breathlessly. 


	10. Chapter 10

It turns out the director of the soup kitchen came to work with one of those 48-hour stomach bugs, and of course Clarke is the only one who catches it. It forces her to stay home Monday and Tuesday while Abby frets over her and spoons homemade chicken soup and ginger tea down her throat every few hours (" _you need your liquids, Clarke_!"). She texts Bellamy on Monday morning to tell him she won't be showing up, and she expects him to ignore her. Instead he sends her a gif of Cinderella transforming out of her rags into her sparkling ball gown.  _Feel better, Princess_  he writes underneath. It's silly, but it's also kind of perfect. Still, she can't shake the mortifying embarrassment she felt walking into the Blake house, the irrational rage shimmering in her intestines at seeing the scrawny blonde place her lips on Bellamy's skin. But she's being ridiculous. She doesn't have any claim on him. She never has. It's just her stupid fucking hormones.  

+ 

On Friday, Coach Byrne makes her and Harper run two extra laps for talking during warm-ups in P.E. It forces them both to hurry through their showers and primping routines in the locker rooms afterward - Harper because she's late to meet Monty for the one day they can have lunch off campus as seniors and Clarke because she needs to drive to Mecha. They're more than halfway to the front office when Harper throws up her arms and stops mid-stride. Clarke almost barrels right into her. 

 

"What is it?" 

 

"Shit," Harper riffles hastily through her messenger bag. "I left my damn cell phone in the locker room." 

 

Clarke takes in the anxious look on her friend's face as she glances toward the wide, silver doors leading to their freedom. 

 

"It's all right. Go on. I'll grab it and give it to you in AP Bio." 

 

"Really?" Harper glows with happiness. 

 

"Yeah, yeah," Clarke sighs as her friend swoops down to hug her. "I'm a sucker for love." 

 

"Thanks, Griff! You're the best!" And with that, Harper practically sprints toward the parking lot. 

 

The sturdy otter box feels smooth against her skin as she skids around the corner on her way into the stairwell that leads from the basement to the ground floor. But the voice filling the echoey space makes her grip the railing harder. 

 

"Oh yeah? Griffin? She's an animal. Couldn't keep her hands off me." 

 

"Really? Always seemed like a nun to me." It's Dax. She can tell without looking. 

 

"Nah, man. She likes it rough." 

 

There's a deep, vibrating laughter. Clarke's whole body goes hot then cold in rapid succession.  

 

"I kept telling her I had a girlfriend, but she didn't care." 

 

"So you popped her cherry?" This time it's John. John Mbege. 

 

Finn laughs again. 

 

"So hard she could barely walk after." 

 

Vision growing hazy at the edges, Clarke slips down the few steps she walked up, pivots around the door frame and speed walks in the opposite direction, the words and laughter repeating endlessly in her head. 

 

+ 

 

She has limited makeup supplies in her car, but she tried to touch up her mascara and foundation from the crying. If she looks closely though, she can still see the streak lines. 

 

"Hey, Prin--" Bellamy begins when she walks quietly into the art studio, eyes on her wedge boots. "What's wrong?" His tone darkens quickly, and he takes a few steps closer. 

 

"It's nothing," she tries to smile but can tell it's weak. 

 

He reaches out like he's going to put a hand on her shoulder. It hovers in the air for a moment before dropping back to his side. He shoves it in his pocket instead. "You sure?" 

 

"Yeah." She drops her bag on the closest formica desk. "Sorry I missed Monday. What are we working on today?" 

 

"Figuring out how to paint convincing ocean waves I think," Bellamy scratches at the side of his mouth, still watching her too closely. "You'll probably be more help there than me." 

 

"Probably," Clarke chuckles drily. 

 

"We got a few minutes before the girls get here, and I left my lunch in the teacher's lounge. I'm gonna go grab it, ok?" 

 

"Yeah, sure," Clarke mumbles, already pulling out paint tubes and palettes from the supply closet. 

 

She's sorting through the sketches she's made over the last couple weeks at a table for four when the heavy object lands next to her right hand with a thunk. Making a noise of surprise, she stares down at the yellow-and-white checked Nutty Buddy package. 

 

"This is my favorite!" she cries it out like an accusation. 

 

"Oh," Bellamy shrugs. "Lucky you I guess. I was getting myself a bottle of water out of the vending machine, so." 

 

"You don't like me eating junk food," Clarke wiggles her eyebrows at him. 

 

"It's a vending machine, Clarke. Beggars can't be choosers."

 

"Cute," she purses her lips at him. It's like he's blinking too much. "Thank you. I didn't eat much of my lunch on the way over." 

 

He smiles sadly at her. "You're welcome." 

 

The class time moves by quickly enough, and Clarke really attempts to stay engaged with the girls' ideas for the mural. She's supervising small clusters of them as they try out their ideas on short cubes of canvas as a test run. But even with all the distraction - Charlotte demands to know where she buys her clothes while Madi asks if she can braid her hair - she can't shake the chilling feeling that overwhelmed her in the stairwell. It's only when Reese outright tugs at her shirt sleeve and points to Bellamy that she realizes they're the last three left in the room. 

 

"He's been calling your name," Reese says matter-of-factly before she heads out the door, purple unicorn backpack vibrantly loud in her wake. 

 

"What's up?" Clarke asks, taking off her apron and folding it on the counter. 

 

"Want you to see something," Bellamy motions her over from his seat at his desk. His eyes skim back and forth across his computer screen. 

 

It's dumb. Really dumb. But the main thought she has when she rounds his desk corner is that his khaki-pant covered legs are just stretched out like that, a perfect perch for her. She has no idea what compels her to do it - maybe the adrenaline is still flooding her system from her fight-or-flight response earlier. But after glancing back and forth from his face to his knees three times, she makes her decision and sits delicately down on his lap. 

 

"What are you doing?" Bellamy rasps against her ear, the fingers of his left hand wrapping around her waist to steady her as she wobbles. He smells like fresh citrus and possibility. It's  _glorious._

"Waiting for you," she says more easily than she feels with her heart in her throat. She gently taps his forearm still extended over the mouse, and he starts scrolling down the news article, which is about sidewalk chalk artists that created 3D landscapes of everything from rushing rapids to a gigantic cup of coffee. 

 

"They're really beautiful," she breathes, captivated by the optical illusions. 

 

"Yeah, they are," Bellamy rumbles behind her, his fingers tighten infinitesimally at her waist, and she's sure something clenches between her legs. 

 

"You know you're only nice to me when I'm upset," she tries to keep her voice completely even, eyes remaining on the screen as an image flicks by of teal water grotto full of stalactites. 

 

He's quiet, but she senses his thigh muscle twitch. 

 

"Not true," he says at last, the breath of it on the back of her neck. All the hairs there stand up. "I'm nice to you except when you're being a brat." 

 

She rolls her eyes, allowing herself one short moment to lean back against the sturdiness of his chest before scurrying back to her feet. He's watching her like he's not entirely sure of anything. Clarke notices the bobble in his throat as he swallows, eyes a little darker. 

 

"O's got her film work tonight," he says, normal as ever. "I'm planning on making her a cake for her birthday this weekend." 

 

"That's nice of you." 

 

"I'm a nice guy," his voice sounds too gruff. But she honestly just can't trust herself at this moment. 

 

"Glad we established that," Clarke walks a few steps backward toward her things. The idiocy of what she just did is starting to eat at her like an assortment of mosquito bites. 

 

"Come over and help me." The words hit her in the chest. Her throat goes dry, not enough moisture to make a coherent sentence. 

 

He frowns. "Or not. It's not mandatory." 

 

"N-no," she stutters. "I'll help you." 

 

She flushes when his eyes rake quickly over her figure. She's wearing a grey tunic and leggings, so he can't see much. But she can still feel the imprint of his hand on her waist. 

 

"Great," he stands too, picking up his springy, spiral-bound day planner and swatting her side with it lightly. "Get back to Mama Kane before her son starts giving me shit at work for taking you away from your education." 

 

Clarke gathers her things hurriedly, the urge to stay at war with the need to leave. As she goes, she spares one last glance over her shoulder at Bellamy. He's hunched over his desk, rifling things around. He's smiling a little, a shaft of sunlight hitting right across the bridge of his nose and illuminating his freckles. 

 

+ 

When Clarke arrives at the Blake's front door, a gentle rain has started falling. She's thankful she remembered a rain jacket that at least repels the water. But her hair's starting to curl under the hood anyway. 

"Door's open, come in!" Bellamy bellows at her knock. 

The smell of sugary sweetness envelops her the moment she steps foot inside. 

"Bellamy Blake! You started without me!" she yells, marching off to the kitchen to confront him.

"Don't get your panties in a twist," he returns, white T-shirt already stained with unknowable substances. His hair's getting long and wild. He flicks it out of his eyes. "I just made some sugar cookies real quick in case the cake sucks. I've got all the icing for you to decorate with, so you're not missing out on anything." 

"Hmmph," she grunts, leaving him to his laughter while she  walks away to find an empty hanger in the hall closet.  A basketball game is buzzing on the TV in the background, the University of Kentucky playing Villanova from the looks of it. 

"I made you a smoothie. It's in the fridge," he says while pulling flour out of the cabinet when she returns. She tries not to notice the good two inches of bronze skin he exposes as he reaches upward. 

"What's the occasion?" She slides by him on the way to collect her treat, doing her best to keep air between their bodies. 

"The occasion is I have to keep the Princess pampered," he snorts.  

"So what are we going to do first?" Clarke asks, choosing to ignore him after taking a deep drag of her smoothie through the pink crazy straw he must've added for her benefit. It's a delicious blend of chocolate, strawberries and banana. He’s forgiven.

"You're making the icing," he slides her the recipe page. She instantly recognizes Aurora's handwriting, and a pang hits her stomach. "It's carrot cake with cream cheese frosting. I need you to grab the butter." 

Clarke nods and begins bustling around the kitchen, as aware of where things are kept here as she is in her own house. They work in easy silence for a few minutes, just the sound of Bellamy's knife dicing carrots into the cutting board. It's comfortable watching the drops of rain slide down the windowpane and the steady white swirl of cream cheese blending with butter, vanilla and sugar in the mixing bowl. Occasionally, the electric mixer slips, and some sweet goo splashes over the side. 

The third time this happens, Bellamy comes up behind her and examines the situation over her shoulder. 

"You're making a mess," he says it as a basic observation. "Presentation counts you know."  

She doesn't want to be able to feel the heat of his chest at her back, but she can. 

"Excuse me, I didn't know I was working for Mr. Crocker who had something to prove," she retorts. "...Making his own icing like he's on a cooking show," she mumbles to herself, but the fondness still streaks her voice. 

"Thought you'd appreciate the whole made-from-scratch thing." One of his forearms comes up on her left side resting on the counter, a few casual inches from her body. 

 _Yeah, his voice definitely dropped an octave. Too close. Too close. Too close._  The alarm bells ring in her brain. 

"Let's see if you appreciate it," she cuts the mixer and swings around, forefinger full of frosting. Grinning, she points it at his lips, planning to decorate them. But Bellamy surprises her by opening his mouth and sucking the finger in, the rough scratch of his tongue setting her nerve endings ablaze. 

"It's good," he says when she pulls her finger back with a pop. And that's it. He returns to his cake, though she's too stunned to move for a solid ten seconds. 

It's when the timer sings out on the cookies and they both reach for the oven door at the same time, fingers sliding over each other, that Clarke has to step back. Very slowly, she draws her blue eyes up to his dark ones that she feels on her cheek. 

"I'm thirsty," she whispers, moving around him intent on her slurping her smoothie for all the distraction it's worth.

"Octavia might not even notice," Bellamy says out of nowhere after pulling out the cookies, hand flapping around the kitchen in the direction of the dessert they're preparing. Though the emotion is gone from his face almost as soon as it arrives, she notices the tiny bout of sadness, the not-quite-being-good enough that always breaks her heart when he shows her flashes of it. 

"She will," Clarke insists. "You always go out of your way for your sister. That's who you are. And she appreciates it."

Emboldened by the softening of his mouth, she steps closer to him, lets her pointer finger tap on his knuckles clenched around the edge of the counter. "You're a good big brother, Bellamy. Octavia's lucky to have you in her life." She takes a deep breath. "I am too." 

She hears his shaky inhale as he shifts his body to face hers. 

"Clarke-?"

"Yeah?" 

"Be careful."  

She blinks, looks away. His fingers slide over hers loosely, tracing her knuckles, the curve of her thumb. He seems more serious than usual when she manages to track her gaze to his face eventually. 

"I'm sorry I yelled at you at Phoenix."

"No you're not." His fingertips are tickling her palm now. It's sending fizzy sparks up her arm. He smirks at her. She steps a couple inches closer, mesmerized by the movement of his eyelashes. 

"Ok, you're right. I'm not."

"See I told you--"

"I'm not sorry for this either," she talks over him. Then her body is rising upward on her tiptoes of its own accord and pressing her lips against his where a hint of frosting awaits  her. Clarke practically levitates in thin air for a moment, brain shutting down, panic setting in when she realizes she's not sure what to do next. 

But then she hears a tiny grunt in Bellamy's throat and his hands clasp onto her hips, walking her backward to the wall as his mouth dips down to claim hers more skillfully than she managed. His lips are warm, slightly chapped and taste like sweetness. She parts her own as soon as she senses the tip of his tongue, winding her hands behind his neck to stroke the skin there. For a few seconds, his hold on her is intense, one hand clamped around her hip like he's scared she'll disappear and the other snaking up to rest right under her bra. There's still space between their chests and all she wants is for him to press himself completely against her, to pin her to the kitchen wall. A primitive part of her wants to arch forward, tell him yes without telling him anything. But the part that wins leans back a little, nibbles at his bottom lip, before tilting her head and allowing him to deepen the kiss. 

All too soon, he pulls back, lips swollen, eyes dazed. His face overflows with guilt. It's not even begun, and she knows it's over instinctually. 

"We ... we can't do this, Clarke. You know we can't." 

It's heaven and hell simultaneously. He's fucking attracted to her too and nothing more can happen. She wants to ask why as the unease sloshes through her system but knows it'll make her sound like a petulant kid. Bellamy reads the unasked question on her face anyway and drives a soft thumb across her cheek. 

"I'm too old for you," he says gruffly. 

"Only five years." 

"Almost six," he corrects. "You're ... going places, Princess. I'm gonna be in Arkadia all my life." 

"You're going places too," she barks, clutching at the bottom of his shirt like a lifeline. He gives her a sad, half smile. At least he doesn't push her away.  

"There's Octavia." 

"We don't have to tell her." It's weak even to her own ears because her best friend would most definitely find out and surely have an opinion. Though what it would be she couldn't say. 

He laughs out loud, a rasping cry. 

"Yeah, right. Have you ever hidden anything from her in your life?" 

_Yeah, my enormous desire to jump you._

"Plus, your mom doesn't like me." 

"That's not true!"

He gives her a look. 

"All right ... well," he scratches at the back of his neck awkwardly, "you know I don't do the whole relationship and commitment thing." 

Her heart rips more fully open because some illogical part of her childish brain thought he might do it for her.

"It doesn't have to be a relationship," she says instead, surprising even herself. 

His hand begins working overtime on his curls.

"What do you mean?" his eyes narrow at her. 

Off in the distance, someone scores a three point shot. 

Her small, pale palm slides over the ridges of his abs. 

"What do you think I mean?" she looks up at him, blinks, tries not to shake. 

" _Clarke."_ One word holding so much emotion. His annoyance, his desperation, his connection to her, whatever the fuck sort of connection it may be. "That's not for you." 

"Why don't you shut up and let me figure out what's for me," she snaps, her gut now roiling in turmoil. 

Bellamy takes a steadying breath, catches her hand gain. 

"So ... uh ... what exactly are you proposing?"

"Just fun. No strings attached." 

"It's not a good idea." 

She bites her lip and watches him watch her do it. They're still tingling from the pressure of him. 

"I'll be going to college soon. It'd be nice to have some more ... practice. You could help me." 

"I'm not fucking you to get you ready for frat parties, Princess. So you can get that idea out of your head right now." 

A rush of heat pulses through her core, but then her brain catches up. It's insulting - yet stimulating, all at once. "Why not?" 

His jaw clenches. A greenish vein at his temple pulses. 

"Because you're not a use and discard kind of girl." 

"Gee, thanks." 

He considers her for many long moments. She's playing with the space between his fingers because she can't watch him while he does. Finally, his shoulders slide forward infinitesimally, and a tiny grin curls at her lip. 

"You think you can be a big girl and handle something casual?" It's the flirty Bellamy voice never reserved for her. 

She swallows around the lump in her throat, remembers Bree kissing the bone of his shoulder, his hand sliding under Roma's skirt. 

"Mhmm," she nods rapidly. She wants him, at least she knows that much. 

"You sure?" 

"I just said I was," she can't help sounding sassy.

"Jesus." His fingers suddenly press between hers, locking them together. Despite the size difference, they fit. "How far are you comfortable going?" 

The minimal contact alone is causing a dampness to bloom between her thighs.

"As far as you're willing to take me." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Story suggestions 
> 
> i find you stunning but you are running me down  
> did you invent the airplane? cause you seem wright for me


	11. Chapter 11

" _Clarke_." Bellamy groans outright, reaching forward to tug her toward him by her waist. Her heart skids a bit behind her ribs as the inches between them rapidly close. "You can't say things like that." 

A slow and steady smile spreads from the corners of her mouth until it lights up her eyes. 

"Why not?" she bats her eyelashes at him. 

Bellamy leans into her smaller frame and places his lips right next to her ear. When he speaks, the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. "What if I'm the bad guy?"

"You're not," she bursts out immediately like a petulant child. But his words roll right over her as he hums her back into silence. 

"You don't want to give me ideas. You're too pure a Princess to ruin." 

Her cheeks redden immediately as flashes of memory hit her from over the past few weeks. Bree half-naked in his doorway kissing his shoulder blade. Roma wrapping her thigh around his hipbone while balancing on a crate. That otherworldly moment in his Jeep when her fingers slid his briefly into the gap created by her spread legs. There's a complicated mixture of feelings lodging in her chest - anger, arousal, embarrassment, curiosity. She probably should make him suffer for the throng of women he's paraded right in front of her nose over the many months she's been paying attention. But she'd never really acted outwardly interested in him until recently, so she's not sure how much she can hold against him. And even if he knew, even if he'd liked her back, what would he really do about it? Bellamy might talk a big game, but with her, his bark has always been worse than his bite. He's protected and cared for her for as long as she can remember, even if his methods haven't been the most conventional. 

Taking her into the woods behind his house to teach her how to shoot at warped tin cans when she'd flat-out refused to step outside for two weeks after her dad died springs to mind. 

" _It's ok to be angry, Clarke," he'd told her calmly when her sixth miss brought her near tears. He read right through her frustration just like always, cutting to the core of her grief. "Some things in life just suck like death, and there's nothing anybody can say or do to make it better."_

_Clarke's brow crinkled, and she shielded her eyes from the sun to look up at his gangly teenage frame where it rested against a tree trunk. "That's not true."_

_"Hmmm?"_

_"You do," she said quietly, scuffing at the small rocks under her sneaker._

_"Sorry?" Bellamy scratched at the back of his neck. "I what?"_

_"You're making it better, just a little bit. But still."_

_"Oh," Bellamy sighed out in a huff, glancing away deeper into the thicket of trees and for a moment, she was completely sure she'd crossed the unknowable line to push him away._

_But then he surprised her by wrapping an arm around her shoulders and drawing her into the side of his chest swiftly, murmuring, "Happy to help" before stepping away and resuming his critique of her aiming ability._

She hates to think this way, but it's a part of her personality to examine things from all angles. To weigh the pros and the cons before making a decision. So ... here it is. She realizes she has a history with Bellamy, that he knows parts of her she doesn't readily share with other people. Yet she still is Octavia's best friend first and foremost, the annoying tagalong from childhood who accidentally knocked over the intricate model of the solar system he'd spent a week building for school and not-so-accidentally swapped out the vanilla cream for toothpaste in his beloved Oreos after he'd told her she was hogging the TV. Plus there's the fact that she's not sure why he'd like someone so, well ... pure in the first place. Bellamy is bravado and charisma, wit and athleticism, hot-headedness and sex appeal. Clarke knows she's quieter and more careful. Her clothes never have rips or stains, even when they were little and playing in the creek bed. She works ceaselessly at her studies, always striving for excellence, and even her art has a certain rigidity to it that she can't quite shake. Finn had seemed to like her when he arrived on campus, but before he did, she was sort of the plain-but-brainy science nerd with a long blonde braid and charcoal-stained fingers. She prefers reading to going out to parties, but she does go sometimes because she wants to see her friends and dancing's not  _that_  bad now that she's discovered alcohol. 

And sure, she'd kissed Wells a few times when they were fourteen under the banner of "practicing" for the real thing. It had been warm and comfortable on his squashy couch with his hand on her knee while his parents were at work. But it never made her heart race or her palms tingle with anticipation. It had never awoken swarms of dragonflies in her chest whose wings would not cease beating. She doesn't really know what to do with the feelings Bellamy brings up in her, and lately her mouth is a runaway train on a collision course with a mountain where he's concerned. Still, compared to him, she knows next to nothing about this sort of thing. She's in no position to be offering up a friends with benefits scenario when she's not one hundred percent sure how that even  _works_. 

The way Bellamy's stroking at her side, up and down, up and down, she has a feeling he'd be gentle and soft with her if that's what she needed despite the implications of his words. She bites her lip and dares a glance up into his brown eyes, wondering why the hell she has a strong urge for him to shove her against the kitchen wall and bite at her neck.

She swallows hard and loud before swiping her thumb over his cheek. 

"I don't mind if you're the one to ruin me."  

Bellamy hisses, burying his face into the side of her neck. For a second, she forgets how to breathe. "Don't, Clarke.' 

"But I don't think you would." 

Bellamy looks like a man possessed when his eyes meet hers again. "You don't know what I want to do to you, baby." His voice is all broken and cracked, sending the perfect shiver through her. 

Her courage must come solely from the hungry way his eyes follow the flick of her wrist to press her loose hair behind her shoulder and flatten the fabric of her long blouse across her hips. "Come show me," she offers, head inclined in the direction of the hallway leading to his room. "I want you to."

His mouth on hers is rougher this time, fierce and demanding. It tears a whimper from the back of her throat. There's the press of each of his fingertips along the bone of her pelvis, but all she wants to do is be closer to him.

"What about the cake?" Clarke manages while her hands clutch at Bellamy's stained white T-shirt. Her blood pressure has got to be through the roof.  

"It can wait," he husks back before lightly licking her pulse point with the very tip of his tongue. Her eyes flutter closed and she breathes him in, praying he'll continue. "Let's go." 

The beat of the rain against the roof is louder as they move down the hallway, which is quickly darkening as what little sunlight hiding behind the clouds slips away in the West. Clarke wonders if her palm is sweaty to him where he grips it firmly. But then Bellamy is pushing his door shut - they've catapulted straight into the room without her noticing - and his gaze is tracking over her face more carefully than before. 

He sits down at the edge of his bed and tugs at both her hands until she half-falls willingly into his lap, giggling. Her electric blue eyes snap up to his when she shifts and feels him growing beneath her. 

"Don't worry about that," he soothes, cupping her neck in his hand and drawing her mouth back to his for a more chaste kiss. 

She lets her hands find the smooth skin at the back of his neck and curl into the thick bracket of his hair. This is an out of body experience if there ever was one. One of her knees on each side of Bellamy's waist as he holds her steady against him. When the thick strength of his fingers pulls up higher and brushes against the side of her breast under her tunic, she freezes, mouth ceasing its exploration of his. 

"Sorry," he grunts at once. The warmth of it drops away. 

Clarke shakes her head. The tip of her nose grazes his freckled cheek. "It's ok," she whispers. "I just--"

"You just?" he prompts, pulling her in closer at the waist so her lower half is completely pressed against him.   

"I..." She feels the rose cream blush heat up the tendons of her neck and spread down below her collarbone underneath her top. "I never thought you liked me like this." 

Bellamy pulls back and shakes his head a few times. When he blinks at her, his expression is full-on skepticism. "But you're beautiful," he says like he's commenting on the sky being blue. "I'd have to be blind not to see that."  

She bites her lower lip and swallows her smile. A wild pulse of adoration is skyrocketing through her body, and it's so, so dangerous. 

"Thanks," she manages, before burying her face into the crook of his neck. 

He chuckles, rocking them gently back and forth. His hands are large enough to span the width of her lower back. 

She's melting into the simple comfort of it, toying with the edge of his shirtsleeve where the tip of a bird's wing peeks through when he speaks again. 

"I want to touch you everywhere." 

He pushes her carefully back at her shoulders and turns her chin to his face to hold her wide-eyed stare. 

"Don't act so surprised. You just said you wanted me to show you things." His hand slides back up her side until the pad of his thumb is ghosting against the cup of her bra. "How am I going to do that if I can't touch you?" 

"Mmm, uhh, I don't--." Clarke's ability to make good use of the English language has abandoned her at a critical juncture. 

"We don't have to do it all at once, hmm? Are you ok with this?" Bellamy's wide palm closes around her breast, and he squeezes it lightly. Tiny rockets soar through her stomach.  

"Mmm," Clarke hums pleasantly trying to compose her expression so he can't see the swift desire pulsing through her and thrumming high between her legs at his action. Somehow, with the smirk on Bellamy's face, she's pretty sure she didn't succeed. 

"Do you like my hand there, baby?" 

Her nipple chooses that exact moment to spring to hard attention. She knows he can feel it even though her bra and flowing pale pink sweater. Bellamy rubs his thumb back and forth across it, and her breath hitches. "Seems like you do. But I'm gonna need to hear you say it." 

He squeezes at her hip, coasting under the fabric of her sweater to stroke her stomach. The goosebumps pop up all of their own accord.

"I like it," Clarke manages in a too-breathy voice that sounds nothing like her own.  

"Good. I like it too."  

She winces a little as he grazes by the side of her ass and drops his hand down to her jean-clad leg. 

"Sorry, I forgot," he says. "But the stitches are out now, right?"

"Yeah," Clarke tilts her hips forward a fraction in the wanton hope of brushing against his erection. She figures it'll make her body feel better. "Last week."  

"I still can't believe that asshole hurt you," Bellamy grits. 

"Shhh," Clarke swoops in and leaves a soft kiss at the corner of his mouth. "No permanent damage. Besides," she blinks a few times, weighing the words. "You took care of me." 

There's a growl from low down in his throat before she's yelping, flipped over onto her back with her thighs bracketed against his as he lays between them. 

"You're damn right I did, Princess." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> honestly, this whole a/b/o and pseudo-incest thing is popping up everywhere, and i should probably feel a certain way about it all, but at this point, i really don't. so here are some recs. also, if you're going to write to me, i'm most interested to know if you think beliza is actually together in australia or if this is all an elaborate scheme to drive us insane. and before you ask me about colonize you, let me just say now i will definitely give it an ending (yes there's one planned out in the tangled place that is my brain), and it'll be coming out chapter by chapter in the weeks ahead. finally, if you do have an idea for an alpha-omega bellarke scenario, i'll consider writing one. i just don't know where to set it/what the parameters would really be so i am open to prompts/suggestions. happy season 6 (i think). 
> 
> darker fics:  
> his omega  
> moderation  
> night sky - i might be addicted?  
> you are a cinema (i could watch you forever) - if you don't want a chapter 2, i'm not sure what's wrong with you 
> 
> lighter (??) fics:  
> without a clue  
> homesick (it's a bittersweet feeling) - i'm just obsessed and don't know what to tell you  
> waste it on me - that softer soulmate reincarnation au  
> love brings you home - i need to know what happens next because bellarke are pregnant and war’s on the way  
> our starved hearts - go beg for an ending. i’m all about that s1 bellarke.


End file.
